“What will you give?” asked the poor girl, faintly.
“Fifty cents. Not a penny more.”
“Fifty cents!” she repeated, in dismay, and was about to refold it. But the thought of her rent in arrears changed her half-formed intention.
“I'll take it, sir.”
The money and ticket were handed her, and she went back to her miserable attic-room, coughing as she went.
“Now, ma'am,” said Eliakim.
His new customer was an Irish woman, by no means consumptive in appearance, red of face and portly of figure.
“And what'll ye be givin' me for this?” she asked, displaying a pair of pantaloons.
“Are they yours, ma'am?” asked Eliakim, with a chuckle.
“It's not Bridget McCarty that wears the breeches,” said that lady. “It's me husband's, and a dacent, respectable man he is, barrin' the drink, which turns his head. What'll ye give for 'em?”