“He shan’t get a cent of your pension, mother!” said Andy, indignantly.
“Or else,” continued the widow, “he may levy on our furniture.”
“Did Mr. Ross say that?” asked Andy.
“Yes.”
“I begin to think,” thought Andy, “that Mr. Ross himself is interested in this matter. In spite of what he says, I believe he means to punish us for what passed between Herbert and myself.”
If this was the case, Andy felt that matters were getting serious. All the more diligently he hunted for the lost receipt, leaving not a nook or cranny of the little cottage unexplored, but his search was in vain. The receipt could not be found.
“Mother,” said he, as he took the candle to go to bed, “there’s only one thing left to do. To-morrow is Saturday, and I shan’t need to go to school. I’ll call on Mr. Starr, and see if I can’t shame him into giving up his claim on us.”
“There’s no hope of that,” said Mrs. Gordon. “You don’t know the man.”
“Yes, I do! I know he is a mean skinflint, but I can’t do any worse than fail. I will try it.”