“Then I wish he’d move out of it. Cops are no company for decent people.”
It is small wonder that James Barclay did not enjoy the company of a class of men who, first and last, had given him considerable trouble.
His wife did not reply, but picked up the rumpled dress and began to smooth it.
“Now, Ellen,” said Barclay, changing his tone out of policy, “I’ll make a bargain with you. I want to go over to New York, and hunt up that telegraph boy. Through him I can track my father and get some money. See, this is all I have in the world,” and he drew out four pennies from his pocket.
“But the children, James.”
“The children can get along on half of it. Give me fifty cents, and I will give you ten dollars as soon as I make a raise. That’s pretty good interest, hey, old woman?”
Mrs. Barclay drew from her pocket two silver quarters and handed them to her husband.
“There, take them, James,” she said, “and don’t forget your promise. I made that money by hard work.”
“It will be all right, Ellen,” said Barclay, thrusting the money carelessly into his vest pocket. “You can’t raise a crop without seed, you know.”