"Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any reasonable young man, Myndert. I cannot give you more."
The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.
"Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred." The son had often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally asked, as a compromise.
Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm of the chair with his thin white hand:
"Not one cent!"
The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied:
"Very well, sir. Be as stingy as you please. Take the advice of your new friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too. But remember, I must have money, and I will have it!"
Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought to terms by this vague but dreadful threat. But now he shook his head, as an intimation that nothing could move him.
"You have taken your own course, sir," continued the son, through his closed teeth. "I shall take mine. Don't forget my last words. As for you, sir," turning to Marcus Wilkeson, "we shall probably meet again."
Marcus urbanely responded that nothing could give him greater pleasure. The son, darting a last malignant look at his father, whose face was happily averted, strode out of the room, slamming the door, and afterward the street door, with increased emphasis.