“I give you warning, Mrs. Trafton,” he said, shaking his cane at our hero, “that I’m going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the street. You’ve got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. I came here thinking I’d be easy with you, but I don’t mean to stand your insulting talk. I’ll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you don’t do it, out you go, bag and baggage. Perhaps when you’re in the poorhouse you may be sorry you didn’t treat me better.”
“Oh, Robert, what shall we do?” asked the poor woman, her courage failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord’s prediction might be fulfilled.
“Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Jane; I’ll take care of you,” said Robert more cheerfully than he felt.
“Oh, you will, will you?” sneered Mr. Jones. “Anybody’d think to hear you that you were worth a pile of money. If your aunt depends on you to keep her out of the poorhouse, I would not give much for her chance.”
“You won’t have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there,” said Robert defiantly.
“You needn’t expect my wife to give you any more sewing,” said Mr. Jones, scowling at the widow.
“I don’t think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn’t been paid for the last work she did,” said Robert.
“What do you mean by that? I credited your uncle with twenty-five cents on his score.”
“Without my aunt’s consent.”
Mr. Jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked violently to and fro—so violently that the chair, whose rockers were short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled ignominiously on the floor.