“I do,” said he.
“You what?” gasped Ford, opening his small eyes wide. “You don’t mean to tell me that there house is yourn?”
“Yes, sir—it’s mine, from cellar to roof. If you want further proof of it,” he cried, wrenching open a drawer of his desk, fumbling among some papers and flinging out on his desk the document of sale in question, stamped, sealed, and witnessed, “there it is.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
“Jiggered or not, sir, your lease is up! You are behind in your rent, and out you go.”
“Well, hold on now; I guess we can fix up this little matter,” returned Ford, with a sheepish grin. “Hadn’t no idea it was you, friend, who owned the house, or I wouldn’t have kept you waitin’.”
“I can assure you,” retorted Enoch, “there is no friendship concerned in this matter. You will desist, sir, in calling me your friend; that phase of our acquaintanceship never existed.”
For a moment neither spoke.
“See here, neighbor,” Ford resumed by way of explanation, and in a tone that was low and persuasive, “with our increasin’ business I’ve been under some mighty heavy expenses lately; new machinery has exacted heavy payments. Our long list of canvassers on the road’s been quite an item in salaries. S’pose I was to let you have a little of our gilt-edged at par, as collateral for the rent?”
“Stop, sir!” cried Enoch. “Do you take me for a fool? Your laundry stock is not worth the paper it is printed on—wasn’t at the time you sold it to Mrs. Miggs.” He slammed his closed fist down on the desk. “There is not a judge on the bench that would take four minutes to decide a case against you for embezzlement. It’s as plain as daylight.”