“Yes, but your father is willing to wait.”
Judy sighed. “Poor Dad! He always is. If he doesn’t get paid at all I’m afraid it will be my fault. I should have told you about this when we were there, Mother. Mr. Sammis accused me of breaking a table. He says he won’t pay Dad until I give him twenty dollars. I objected because he really broke the table himself. Then he went up to twenty-five.”
“That’s like him.” Mrs. Bolton’s voice was bitter. “I don’t think he intends to pay, anyway. That was just an excuse.”
“Will you tell Dad?”
“Do you think we should?” Judy’s mother asked. “He has so many worries. Probably he’ll just cross off what Mr. Sammis owes as a bad debt. If he hadn’t found that excuse he would have found some other.”
“But that isn’t fair!”
“Judy girl,” her mother said gently, “when you’ve lived as long as I have you will realize that a great many things in this world aren’t fair. You can’t right all the wrongs.”
“I know, Motherkins, but I can try to right a few of them, can’t I?” Judy asked.
Mrs. Bolton gave up. Judy was a born crusader, she said, but there was pride in her voice. She wouldn’t have had it any other way.
They talked for a few more minutes, and then Judy went back to the work of sorting and arranging the things she had collected. Blackberry insisted on helping. There was a faded ribbon dangling from the souvenir booklet she had picked up in Hugh Sammis’ shop. Ribbons always tempted him.