“There’s where I differ with you, Uncle Ruben.”
“You are an ungrateful scamp. Here I am, offerin’ you a good home—”
“I know you offer me shelter, food and clothing, but you can’t give me a home. I shall never have one again, now that my mother is dead.”
“And your father in prison for stealin’.”
“You might have spared me that, Uncle Ruben. I know he is in prison, and there is no need that you and everybody else should constantly remind me of it. I am in no way to blame for what he did.”
“Mebbe you hain’t. But can’t you see how it’s a hurtin’ of you? Who is there about here that would be willin’ to hire the son of a thief?”
“I don’t care to talk to you now, Uncle Ruben. Leave me alone for a day or two, and then I will tell you what I have decided to do.”
“Might as well decide now as any time. I reckon you know that this house an’ everything what’s into it belongs to me, don’t you? I didn’t say nothing to your mother about it when she was alive, ’cause she was my brother’s wife, and I didn’t want to pester her; but now—”
“I know you didn’t say anything about the mortgage, but I notice that you always demanded the interest the moment it was due. You took it, too, when you knew that my mother didn’t have money enough in the house to buy a sack of flour.”
“Well, it was my due, an’ I wanted it.”