“Unfortunately, Mrs. B., I don’t know the telegraph boy—never met him—shouldn’t know him from Adam.”
“I suppose he has a number.”
“That’s so, old woman!” exclaimed Barclay, slapping his knee with emphasis. “I think I know where I can find out his number, and then it’ll be easy to find him. He can’t hide from me, for he has to be on duty every day. But I shall want money—just give me that dollar!”
“I can’t, James; the poor children would have to go without their supper.”
“Look here, Mrs. B., I want you to understand that you’ve got to obey your husband. I’ll give you back the money as soon as I can, but I need it to track my father. Let me once get hold of him, and it’ll be all right. I will soon have plenty of money.”
“But I can’t spare the money, James. The children must have their supper.”
“I’m tired of your talk,” he rejoined, roughly. “If you refuse me the money, I’ll raise it in some other way.”
He glared round the room, and his eyes rested on a dress that his wife had just ironed.
“I can raise something on that,” he said, seizing the dress, and preparing to carry it away.