"I'll get him a place in a printing-office." In his excitement, Mr. Lambert forgot to grumble. His voice was natural and agreeable.
"Just the thing! But isn't he too young,—he's only nine?"
"That's a fault easily cured. He must be put into the Five Points Mission School till he's twelve,—learn to read and spell, and all that sort of thing. Where is he?"
"In the hospital. Will you go with me to see him?"
"Certainly not. Why should I go? I've nothing to do with it, any way. You wanted advice and I gave it,—that's all. Don't be nonsensical now," putting another bill stealthily on the table. "What did you say the fellow's name is?"
"Neddy Carter. He isn't strong enough to be carried to that old, tumble-down attic, and so I have engaged a friend to take him home with her till he can have his artificial legs made. That's what the doctor subscribed five dollars for."
"Wooden legs, eh! That's the plan, is it? Five dollars! Tell this doctor to mind his own business. I know a man—that is, he owes me—that is, he will owe me—a bill, and I'll get the legs out of him—see if I don't. I'll"—grumbling. "Well, I'm going. I don't find your story very entertaining. It's lucky I'm forgetful: shan't know anything about it to-morrow. Good-day, Miss Howard. Don't make a fool of yourself more than you can help."
He caught his cane and was crossing the room when he saw the bill he had first taken from his pocket and forgotten lying on the floor.
"Pretty way to use good money," he said, with a sneer, pointing to it. "With all your teaching business, you'll never get rich that way, Miss Howard."