“Then I might as well have it now, don’t you think so, dad?”
“Go away! I don’t feel well. I want to be left alone,” stammered Jerry, with a terrified look at the stout, broad shouldered visitor, whom he could hardly believe to be his son, so great was the difference between the burly strength of the one, and the shrinking weakness of the other.
“Look here, dad, you ain’t treating me well. You don’t seem to consider that I am your only son. Are you saving up your money for that young telegraph brat that lives with you?”
“Paul is a good boy,” mumbled Jerry. “He doesn’t scare and trouble me like you, James.”
“That isn’t answering my question. Are you going to leave him all your money?”
“I—I have very little—to leave, James,” returned the old man, lapsing into his usual whine. “There won’t be anything left when my funeral expenses are paid.”
“What there is will go to me, will it?”
“I—I suppose so,” faltered Jerry.
“Then I think you’d better make your will and say so. Otherwise that boy will claim all.”
“Paul is a good boy. I—I should starve but for what he brings me every week.”