"I—I haven't any supper for you."
"I don't want any here. I wouldn't care to board with you, Aunt Jane. Why, I should soon become a bag of bones like yourself. I don't believe you've got five cents' worth of provisions in the room."
"There's half a loaf of bread in the closet."
"Let me take a look at it."
He strode to the closet and opened the door. On a shelf he saw half a loaf of bread, dry and stale. He took it in his hand, laughing.
"Why, that bread is three days' old," he said. "Where's your butter?"
"I—I don't eat butter. Its too high!"
"And you don't care to live high!" said Jack, laughing at his own joke. "I don't care to rob you of this bread. Aunt Jane. It's too rich for my blood. Don't you ever eat anything else?"
"Sometimes," she answered, hesitating.
"I'd rather take my supper at the cheapest restaurant on the Bowery. What I want is money."