“The landlord?” she cried, excitedly. “What for can it be?” With trembling fingers she tore open the note. The slip dropped from her hand. Her face grew livid, her eyes bulged with terror. “Oi weh!” she exclaimed, as she fell back against the wall.
“Gewalt!” cried her husband, seizing her limp hand, “you look like struck dead.”
“Oi-i-i! The murderer! He raised me the rent five dollars a month.”
“Good for you! I told you to listen to me. Maybe he thinks we got money laying in the bank when you got so many dollars to give out on paint.”
She turned savagely on her husband. “What are you tearing yet my flesh? Such a money-grabber! How could I imagine for myself that so he would thank me for laying in my money to painting up his house?”
She seized her shawl, threw it over her head, and rushed to the landlord’s office.
“Oi weh! Mr. Landlord! Where is your heart? How could you raise me my rent when you know my son is yet in France? And even with the extra washing I take in I don’t get enough when the eating is so dear?”
“The flat is worth five dollars more,” answered Mr. Rosenblatt, impatiently. “I can get another tenant any minute.”
“Have pity on me! I beg you! From where I can squeeze out the five dollars more for you?”
“That don’t concern me. If you can’t pay, somebody else will. I got to look out for myself. In America everybody looks out for himself.”