“Mr. Pitkin, you don't realize the danger. Here's Uncle Oliver worth a quarter of a million dollars, and it ought to be left to us.”
“Probably it will be.”
“He may leave it all to this boy. This must be prevented.”
“How?”
“You must say the boy doesn't suit you, and discharge him.”
“Well, well, give me time. I have no objection; but I suspect it will be hard to find any fault with him. He looks like a reliable boy.”
“To me he looks like an artful young adventurer,” said Mrs. Pitkin vehemently. “Depend upon it, Mr. Pitkin, he will spare no pains to ingratiate himself into Uncle Oliver's favor.”
It will be seen that Mrs. Pitkin was gifted—if it can be called a gift—with a very suspicious temperament. She was mean and grasping, and could not bear the idea of even a small part of her uncle's money going to any one except her own family. There was, indeed, another whose relationship to Uncle Oliver was as close—a cousin, who had estranged her relatives by marrying a poor bookkeeper, with whom she had gone to Milwaukee. Her name was never mentioned in the Pitkin household, and Mrs. Pitkin, trusting to the distance between them, did not apprehend any danger from this source. Had she known Rebecca Forbush was even now in New York, a widow with one child, struggling to make a living by sewing and taking lodgers, she would have felt less tranquil. But she knew nothing of all this, nor did she dream that the boy whom she dreaded was the very next day to make the acquaintance of this despised relation.
This was the way that it happened:
Phil soon tired of the room he had taken in Fifth Street. It was not neatly kept, and was far from comfortable. Then again, he found that the restaurants, cheap as they were, were likely to absorb about all his salary, though the bill-of-fare was far from attractive.