“Then it’s your fault, Dan Hardy! Ye loitered on th’ road, until my sister got better. Now I’m out a dollar an’ a half through you! I’ll make ye pay—”
Then Mr. Hardy seemed to remember that Dan never had any money, and could not pay for the medicine.
“I’ll—I’ll get it outer ye somehow,” he threatened. “Th’ idea of wastin’ time, an’ makin’ me throw away a dollar an’ a half!”
“Can’t you keep the medicine until you or Mrs. Savage need it?” asked Dan, trying to see a way out of the difficulty.
“Keep it? Why I might have it in th’ house six months an’ never need it. I ain’t never sick, an’ there is my money all tied up in a bottle of medicine. It’s a shame, that’s what ’tis! Wimmin folks hadn’t oughter git sick! Now ye’d better git t’ work. Them onions need weedin’ agin.”
“I haven’t had my breakfast, Mr. Savage.”
“Wa’al, ye don’t deserve any, but I s’pose ye got t’ have it. Go int’ th’ house, but hustle.”
The boy, who resented this way of being talked to, started for the kitchen, where he knew he was likely to meet sour words and angry looks from Mrs. Savage.
“I s’pose I’d better put this bottle away where it won’t git busted,” murmured Mr. Savage, as he followed Dan. “I’m goin’ t’ write t’ Lucy, an’ see if I can’t make her pay me fer half of it anyhow.”
Dan thought his employer would have hard work making Mrs. Randall pay.