“That’s a pretty way to talk of your father—as an ould ninny,” said Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.
“Never you mind! It’s none of your business. I suppose you’re looking for a slice of the property yourself.”
“No, I’m not Mr. James Barclay. I’m an honest woman, and can earn my own living.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not so sure of the telegraph boy. He’s been living on the old man all his life, and he means to be provided for when he dies.”
“I don’t know what your father would have done without him,” said Mrs. Hogan. “He’s worked for old Jerry ever since he was six years old—when his own flesh and blood deserted him. Isn’t it so, Jerry?”
“Yes, Paul is a good boy,” responded Jerry, feebly.
“Oh, no doubt; he’s an angel,” sneered James Barclay. “I say, Number 91, as you seem to have my father’s money, I’ll just mention that I shall want ten dollars tomorrow.”
“I have no money of your father’s, Mr. Barclay, and I shall not be able to advance you the money myself.”
“Well, it’s got to come from some quarter,” said Barclay; “whether he gives it to me, or you, I don’t care, as long as I have it.”
“You ought to earn your own living—you’re big and strong enough,” said Mrs. Hogan, with spirit.