“If it ain’t nothin’ ter bother a feller at night, I be.”
“Sit up in bed. Here, put my jacket around you. I’ve a scheme—a splendid scheme!”
“Don’t like your schemes. Last one didn’t turn out worth a snap.”
“This one will. I see how you and I can make some money. Sit up.”
“I am sitting up. How can we make it?” asked the cash-greedy child, interested at last.
“You know those chrysanthemums?”
“Yep.”
“Well; here, let me whisper. We—can—sell—them! And make a lot of dollars—maybe. Make something, anyway. Enough to pay for the doctor’s visit.”
“Beatrice Beckwith! They was give to you!”
“Don’t speak so loud. Mother is asleep, Roland is writing, Belle studying. Only you and I are to know about this. Yes, I know they were given to me. To me, understand. That is why I dare do this thing. And don’t reproach me for parting with them. It breaks my heart to do it; only it don’t break it into such little bits as it gets broken into every time I think of Motherkin and how hard she works. To come to the point. I want you to get up with me early to-morrow and go on the street and try to sell the flowers. Will you?”