“Lemme see. Six per cent—six times seven—four hundred an’ twenty.”
“That would be thirty-five dollars a month, wouldn’t it?”
Higginbotham nodded.
“Then, if you’ve no objection, we’ll arrange it this way.” Martin glanced at Gertrude. “You can have the principal to keep for yourself, if you’ll use the thirty-five dollars a month for cooking and washing and scrubbing. The seven thousand is yours if you’ll guarantee that Gertrude does no more drudgery. Is it a go?”
Mr. Higginbotham swallowed hard. That his wife should do no more housework was an affront to his thrifty soul. The magnificent present was the coating of a pill, a bitter pill. That his wife should not work! It gagged him.
“All right, then,” Martin said. “I’ll pay the thirty-five a month, and—”
He reached across the table for the check. But Bernard Higginbotham got his hand on it first, crying:
“I accept! I accept!”
When Martin got on the electric car, he was very sick and tired. He looked up at the assertive sign.
“The swine,” he groaned. “The swine, the swine.”