“But I’ll tell you one thing,” Powell went on, his tone suddenly changing to one of angry resolution as he flung his feet heavily to the bare floor and struck his desk a startling blow with his fist, “I’ll tell you one thing, I’m through working for nothing; they’ve got to pay me! I’m going to squeeze the last cent out of them after this, same as old Dudley does, same as old Bill Blair did before he went on the bench; that’s what I’m going to do. I’m getting old and I’ve got to quit running a legal eleemosynary institution.”
Powell’s eyes flamed, but a shadow fell in the room, and Powell and Marley glanced at the door.
“Well, what do you want?” said Powell.
An old woman, bareheaded in the hurry of a crisis, was on the threshold.
“Oh, Mr. Powell,” she began in a wailing voice, “would you come quick!”
“What for?”
“Charlie’s in ag’in.”
“Got any money?” demanded Powell, in the angry resolution of a moment before. He clenched his fist again on the edge of his table. Marley glanced at him in surprise, and then at the old woman.
The woman hung her head and stammered:
“Well, you know—I hain’t just now, but by the week’s end, when I get the money for my washin’—”