“Then you want something. The usual?”
“Yes, father—money.”
This was an undertaking often embarked upon before, and successfully, but each time with a bitterer 25 spirit and a deeper sense of humiliation. The result of each appeal was worse than the last, the miser’s hand tightened upon his gold.
She knew that there was no use in beating about the bush with him. During occasional periods of illness, she had acted as his secretary, and was cognizant of his ways and his affairs, and of the immense amount of wealth he was storing up for her son. At least, it seemed impossible that it could be for anyone else, although the old man constantly threatened that not a penny should go to the young scapegrace, as he termed his grandson. He repeatedly prophesied jail and the gallows for the young scamp.
“How much is it now?” asked the miser.
“A large sum, father,” faltered Mrs. Swinton. “A thousand dollars! You know you promised John a thousand dollars toward the building of the Mission Hall.”
“What!” screamed the old man, in horror. “A thousand dollars! It’s a lie.”
“You did, father. I was here. I heard you promise. John talked to you a long time of what was expected of you, and told you how little you had given—”
“Like his insolence.”
“And you promised a thousand dollars.”