“If your daughter knew what I know!”
“You don’t know anything, sir—you don’t know anything!”
“I know a good deal. Three times during your 189 illness, you were light-headed—you remember?”
“I tell you, I’m not a thief. The money was mine—mine! Her mother was my wife—it belonged to me. Doesn’t a wife’s money belong to her husband?”
“Tut, tut! Lie down and be quiet. I only kept quiet on condition that you set things straight for your daughter in your will, and left her the three thousand a year her mother placed in your care.”
“Trimmer, you’re presuming. Trimmer, you’re a bully. I’ll—I’ll cut your fifty thousand dollars out of my will—”
“And I’ll promptly cut you out of existence, if you do,” murmured Trimmer, bending down.
“That’s right, threaten me—threaten me,” whined the old man. “You’re all against me—a lot of thieves and scoundrels! What would become of the world, if there weren’t a few people like me to look after the money and save it from being squandered in soup-kitchens, and psalm-smiting, and Sunday schools?”
“Lie down and be quiet. You’ve done enough talking for to-day. I’m going to have you moved into the other room.”
“I’ll not be treated as a child, sir. I’ll stop your wages, sir. I’ll—”