“Oh, well, I don’t expect you do, generally, but when it comes to tradin’, most everybody lies,” observed Nick candidly.
“I have no object in misrepresenting, for I don’t want to sell the violin.”
“You can’t afford to keep it! The town won’t let you!”
“The town won’t let me?” echoed Philip, now thoroughly mystified.
“Of course they won’t. The idea of a pauper bein’ allowed a fiddle to play on! Why, it’s ridiculous!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Philip, who now began to comprehend the meaning of this thick-witted visitor. “What have I got to do with the town, or with paupers?”
“Why, you’re goin’ to the poorhouse, ain’t you?”
“Certainly not!” answered Philip, with flashing eyes.
“I guess you’re mistaken,” said Nick coolly. “Squire Pope was over to our shop this mornin’, and he told dad that the seleckmen were goin’ to send you there after the auction.”
Philip’s eyes flashed angrily. He felt insulted and outraged. Never for a moment had he conceived the idea that any one would regard him as a candidate for the poorhouse.