“How came it,” said his father, his voice trembling with anger, “that you haven't paid your board bill for six weeks?”
“I didn't have the money,” said Eben, with a composure which was positively aggravating to his father.
“And why didn't you have the money? Your wages are ample to pay all your expenses.”
“It costs more money to live in Boston than you think for, father.”
“Don't you get ten dollars a week, sir? At your age I got only seven, and saved two dollars a week.”
“You didn't live in Boston, father.”
“I didn't smoke cigars,” said his father, angrily, as he fixed his eye on the one his son was smoking. “How much did you pay for that miserable weed?”
“You're mistaken, father. It's a very good article. I paid eight dollars a hundred.”
“Eight dollars a hundred!” gasped Mr. Graham. “No wonder you can't pay your board bill—I can't afford to spend my money on cigars.”
“Oh, yes, you can, father, if you choose. Why, you're a rich man.”