“Oh, father, father, it is expected of you.”
“How much?” snapped the old man.
“Oh, quite a large sum, father. I want you to advance me some of my allowance, as well. I must have at least two thousand dollars.”
“What!” he screamed. “Two thousand! Two, you mean. Get me my check-book—get me my check-book.”
He pointed to the desk. She knew where to find it, and hastened to obey, thinking to rush the matter through. She took the blotting-pad from the desk, and placed it on her father’s knees, and brought an inkstand and a pen, which she put into his trembling fingers.
“Two thousand, father,” she said, gently.
“No—two!” he snarled, flashing out at her and positively jabbering in his anger. He filled in the date, and again looked around at her, tauntingly. Then, he wrote the word “Two” on the long line.
“Two. Do you understand?” he snarled, thrusting his nose into her face, as she bent over him to hold the blotting-pad. “That’s all you’ll get out of me.” He filled in the figure two below, and straggling 28 noughts for the cents. Then, he paused and addressed her again, emphasizing his remarks with the end of the penholder.
“I’ll have you understand that this is the last of your borrowing and begging. I am not giving you this money, you understand? I am advancing it on account. Every penny I pay you will be deducted from the little legacy I leave you at my death.”
She wearily waited for him to sign, to get it over; for there was nothing to be done when he was in a mood like this. Perhaps, on the morrow, he would be more rational.