“I can’t bear to have you beg,” said Paul, his brows contracting. “I don’t want to have it said that I live with a beggar.”
“It isn’t my fault that I am very poor, Paul.”
“Are you so very poor?” asked Paul, pointedly.
“I—of course I am. What do you mean, Paul?” asked the old man, his manner indicating alarm. “Don’t you know I am very poor?”
“I know you say so.”
“Of course I am. Did any one ever tell you I wasn’t?”
“This room looks like it at any rate,” answered Paul, looking about with ill concealed disgust.
He didn’t choose to say anything of the discovery he had made, through his friend Johnny Woods, of old Jerry’s deposit in the Bowery Savings Bank.
“Yes, yes, and it is more than I can afford. Four dollars a month is an awful price. I have often thought I must find a cheaper room.”
“You couldn’t easily find a poorer one,” said Paul, moodily. “Well, grandfather, have you had your supper?”