And the landlord, after receiving what the widow had to pay, left the room in a huff, slamming the door behind him.
Frank had listened to the colloquy in silent indignation.
“I should like to pitch the man down-stairs,” he said.
“You must neither do nor say anything rash, my son. Remember we may need to ask his forbearance to-morrow. I am afraid we can’t get together the dollar he requires by that time.”
At this moment the postman’s whistle was heard below.
“Go down, Alvin, and see if there is a letter for us,” said his mother.
Alvin returned in a minute with an envelope in his hand.
“It has a funny stamp on it,” he said.
“Is the letter for me?”
“No; it is for Frank.”