Benny, perched precariously on the veranda railing, gave a sudden indignant snort. Benny was eight, the youngest of the family.
“Well, I don’t think I like it here, anyhow,” he chafed. “I’d rather go back an’ live where we did. A feller can have some fun there. It hasn’t been anything but ‘Here, Benny, you mustn’t do that over here, you mustn’t do that over here!’ ever since we came. I’m going home an’ live with Aunt Flora. Say, can’t I, Aunt Flo?”
“Bless the child! Of course you can,” beamed his aunt. “But you won’t want to, I’m sure. Why, Benny, I think it’s perfectly lovely here.”
“Pa don’t.”
“Indeed I do, Benny,” corrected his father hastily. “It’s very nice indeed here, of course. But I don’t think we can afford it. We had to squeeze every penny before, and how we’re going to meet this rent I don’t know.” He drew a profound sigh.
“You’ll earn it, just being here—more business,” asserted his wife firmly. “Anyhow, we’ve just got to be here, Jim! We owe it to ourselves and our family. Look at Fred to-night!”
“Oh, yes, where is Fred?” queried Miss Flora.
“He’s over to Gussie Pennock’s, playing tennis,” interposed Bessie, with a pout. “The mean old thing wouldn’t ask me!”
“But you ain’t old enough, my dear,” soothed her aunt. “Wait; your turn will come by and by.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” triumphed the mother. “Her turn will come—if we live here. Do you suppose Fred would have got an invitation to Gussie Pennock’s if we’d still been living on the East Side? Not much he would! Why, Mr. Pennock’s worth fifty thousand, if he’s worth a dollar! They are some of our very first people.”