"Oh, if you had only kept out of this copper speculation!" she lamented.
"I couldn't keep out. You knew I couldn't. Bryce Thompson was my partner, my friend, and—he's dead. I ain't goin' to have any slur on his memory. I've paid his debts, dollar fer dollar, and I'm carryin' his copper stock. Bryce made a mistake, but he meant well. He did it fer his daughter, Betty, and"—here Baxter's voice grew tender as he saw Eleanor's distress—"don't you worry, little woman, we'll come out o' this copper fight on top."
These comforting words seemed only to arouse a sharper resentment in Mrs. Baxter, who turned on her husband angrily. "Meantime, our whole household must be upset, and—we must economize. I suppose you're going to discharge some of the servants?"
Hiram answered with his most winning smile: "Say, ye guessed it the first time. We've got a dozen servants up at Ipping House, and I believe five could do the work just as well—or better."
"Absurd!"
"Bet ye seven dollars and a quarter five servants could do the work if we cut out some o' your relatives."
"You needn't say they're all my relatives. How about Betty Thompson? She's more extravagant than any of the others."
"Bet ye she'll be the first one to take her coat off and hustle—when she knows."
Eleanor's lips tightened for another indignant outburst, but, by a great effort, she controlled herself and spoke with her most irritating manner of lofty disapproval: "Hiram! I wish you wouldn't use that vulgar American word."
Baxter stroked his chin thoughtfully under his white mustache. "Think it's vulgar, eh? The English aristocracy think it's vulgar to hustle, but tell me where the English aristocracy would be if it wasn't for the dollars that American fellers like me have hustled for?"