“Hush! How dare you sell Methusalem?” He cowered again before her passion.
“That was eating us out of house and home!” he whimpered.
“Get up! There’s your supper.”
He rose like a scolded child, clutching the scraps of thin paper. She put on her bonnet.
“Where ye gooin’?”
“To Mr. Skindle, of course.”
“Too late for that!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“But ye won’t git Methusalem back.”
“Oh, won’t I, though!”