“You sell horses, don’t you?” demanded Barbara.
“Horses? Sure!”
“And—and oxen. They’re meant to work, and people buy them to work. That’s what I want to do. I want to work for three—or four years, if I must; and I want the money all at once—in advance.”
“I don’t know as I ketch your idee,” said Mr. Bellows. “You want money, an’ you want it right away, an’ you want me to sell——”
“I want you to sell my work—honest work, housework, any kind of work that I can do, for—for a term of years.”
Mr. Bellows abandoned further efforts at bettering the condition of the late Widow Small’s sewing machine. He stood up and scowled meditatively at Barbara.
“Seems t’ me I’ve seen you b’fore, somewheres; haven’t I?”
“My name is Barbara Preston,” the girl said haughtily.
“An’ you want I should——”