“John Shelton’s oldest son talks of getting married. He’ll be glad to hire it of me.”
“What’s to become of Mrs. Trafton?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” answered the landlord carelessly. “The last time I called she was impudent to me; came near ordering me out of the house till I made her understand that I had more right to the house than she had.”
“She puts on a good many airs for a poor woman,” said Mrs. Jones. “It’s too ridiculous for a woman like her to be proud.”
“If anything, she isn’t as bad as that young whelp, Bob Coverdale. The boy actually told me I wasn’t respectful enough to his precious aunt. I wonder if they’ll be respectful to her in the poorhouse—where it’s likely she’ll fetch up?”
“I don’t see where the boy got money enough to go off,” said Mrs. Jones.
“He didn’t need much to get to Boston or New York. He’s probably blackin’ boots or sellin’ papers in one of the two.”
“I hope he is. I wonder how that sort of work will suit the young gentleman?”
“To-morrow the time’s up, and I shall foreclose the mortgage. I’ll fix up the place a little and then offer it to young Shelton. I guess he’ll be willin’ to pay me fifty dollars a year rent, and that’ll be pretty good interest on my two hundred dollars.”
“Have you given Mrs. Trafton any warning?”