“You will do me a great favor if you will send me the amount—thirty dollars—within a week, as my rent is coming due.
“Yours respectfully, SUSAN JONES.”
The feelings of a man like Ebenezer Graham can be imagined when he read this unpleasant missive.
“Thirty dollars!” he groaned. “What can the graceless boy be thinking of, to fool away his money, and leave his bills to be settled by me. If this keeps on, I shall be ruined! It's too bad, when I am slaving here, for Eben to waste my substance on riotous living. I've a great mind to disown him. Let him go his own way, and fetch up in the poorhouse, if he chooses.”
But it is not easy for a man to cast off an only son, even though he is as poorly supplied with natural affections as Ebenezer Graham. Besides, Eben's mother interceded for him, and the father, in bitterness of spirit, was about to mail a registered letter to Mrs. Jones, when the cause of his anguish suddenly made his appearance in the store.
“How are you, father?” he said, nonchalantly, taking a cigar from his mouth. “Didn't expect to see me, did you?”
“What brings you here, Eben?” asked Mr. Graham, uneasily.
“Well, the cars brought me to Stockton, and I've walked the rest of the way.”
“I've heard of you,” said his father, frowning. “I got a letter last night from Mrs. Jones.”
“She said she was going to write,” said Eben, shrugging his shoulders.