"I hope so; they have had trouble enough."
"Um, um, they will go to Flatbush, I suppose, and I—poor old outcast that I am—may rub my hands in poverty."
He looked so cringing, and yet so saturnine, that Frank was tempted to turn on his heel and leave him with his innuendoes unanswered. But his better spirit prevailing, he said, after a moment's pregnant silence:
"Yes; the young ladies will go to Flatbush, and the extent of the poverty you endure will depend upon your good behavior. I do not think either of your nieces would wish to see you starve."
"No, no, poor dears, they are very kind, and the least I can do is to leave them. Old age and misery are not fit companions for youth and hope, are they, Mr. Etheridge?"
"I have already intimated what I thought about that."
"So you have, so you have. You are such a lawyer, Mr. Etheridge, such an admirable lawyer!"
Frank, disgusted, attempted to walk on, but Huckins followed close after him.
"You do not like me," he said. "You think because I was violent once that I envy these sweet girls their rights. But you don't know me, Mr. Etheridge; you don't know my good heart. Since I have seen them I have felt very willing to give up my claims, they are such nice girls, and will be so kind to their poor old uncle."
Frank gave him a look as much as to say he would see about that, but he said nothing beyond a short "What train do you take?"