“Cousin David,” said Felix to the bookkeeper one day, “I don’t see how it happens that Chester is so well supplied with cash.”
“Is he?” asked Mullins.
“Yes; he has just bought a new suit, a new hat and new shoes. They must have cost him altogether as much as thirty dollars. How much wages do you pay him?”
“Five dollars a week.”
“And he pays all that for board, for he told me so.”
“It does seem a little mysterious. Perhaps his friend the artist helps him.”
“No, he doesn’t. I intimated as much one day, but he said no, that he paid his own way. One evening last week, I saw him going into Daly’s Theatre with a young fellow handsomely dressed—quite a young swell. They had two-dollar seats, and I learned that Chester paid for them. He doesn’t have any chance to pick up any money in this office, does he?” asked Felix, significantly.
“I can’t say as to that. I haven’t missed any.”
“I wish he would help himself. Of course, he would be discharged, and then you might find a place for me.”
“I may do so yet.”