“And would you put me on the street, me and my poor childer?” said the poor woman, with a troubled look. “I’m afraid it’s the hard heart you have, Mr. Barclay.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Mrs. O’Connor,” said Jerry, sharply. “I can’t let you stay here for nothing. I—I’m very poor myself,” he added, with his customary whine.
“You poor!” repeated the widow, bitterly. “I’ve heard that you’re rolling in riches, Mr. Barclay.”
“Who—who says so?” asked Jerry, alarmed.
“Everybody says so.”
“Then you can tell ’em they’re very much mistaken.”
“What do you do with all the rent you get from this building, then?”
“I pay it away, that is, almost all of it. I don’t own the building. I—I hire it, and some months, on account of losses, I don’t make a cent,” asseverated Jerry. “I—I think I’m a little out take the year together.”
“Then why don’t you give it up if you don’t make any money out of it?”