Slowly a plan began to form. I’d save the money. I could sell stuff to the fishermen: crawfish, minnows, and fresh vegetables.
In berry season, I could sell all the berries I could pick at my grandfather’s store.
I could trap in the winter. The more I planned, the more real it became.
There was the way to get those pups—save my money.
I could almost feel the pups in my hands. I planned the little doghouse, and where to put it.
Collars I could make myself. Then the thought came, “What could I name them?”
I tried name after name, voicing them out loud. None seemed to fit. Well, there would be plenty of time for names.
Right now there was something more important—fifty dollars—a fabulous sum—a fortune—far more money than I had ever seen.
Somehow, some way, I was determined to have it.
I had twenty-three cents—a dime I had earned running errands for my grandpa, and thirteen cents a fisherman had given me for a can of worms.
The next morning I went to the trash pile behind the barn.
I was looking for a can—my bank. I picked up several, but they didn’t seem to be what I wanted.
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