"Well, did you work with your hands? Have you had to be a toiler?"
"Oh, naturally I had resources! But might I ask"—Merle said it with chill dignity—"may I inquire just what relation this might have——"
"You won't have resources any longer."
"Eh?" Merle this time did not wave. He stared stonily at his informant.
"That was the revolution. They called each other down and found that every last one of them had been sending you money, each thinking he was the only one and no one wanting you to starve. Even your dear old Sharon Whipple kicked in every month. No wonder I didn't find you in a tenement."
"Preposterous!" expostulated Merle.
"Wasn't it? Anyway, they all got mad at each other, and then they all got mad at you; then they swore an oath or something." He paused impressively. "No more checks!"
"Preposterous!" Merle again murmured.
"But kind of plausible, wasn't it? Sharon wasn't any madder than the others when they found each other out. Mrs. Harvey D. is the only one they think they can't trust now. They're going to watch that woman's funds. Say, anything she gets through the lines to you—won't keep you from toiling!"
"Poor Mother Ella!" murmured Merle, his gaze remotely upon the woman. "She has always been so fond of me."