"You've brought me into a pretty pickle, as it is," says he, looking at mother. "Why, my whole year's income, if I had it this moment, wouldn't do more than set us straight, and not a penny left for the year to come."
"Father, what are you going to do?" I made bold to ask. "Are the bills to be left unpaid?"—and I did not like the thought.
"No," said he gruffly. "There's some won't wait. I'll have to borrow. It's lucky I have a friend like Mr. Simmons."
"Oh, not Mr. Simmons, father!" said I.
"And why not?" says he.
I couldn't tell why. I could only say,—"I don't like him,—and grannie didn't either."
"Don't be a goose, Phœbe," said he. "Don't like him! What does that matter? I'm not asking you to like him. He'll lend me money to get over this, and that's all I want."
"Father," said I, "couldn't we begin to spend less, some way or other? If we were to have only a girl in the house, as we had at first—I'd work hard with her."
But mother said, "O no! Mrs. Raikes doesn't do with a girl." And father said, "Don't you meddle." So that shut my mouth.