Says he, “Hain’t there nobody else whose duty it is to get the dress? Her relations? I should think it was their duty to help.”
Never did I ask a stingy human creeter for help for the poor, or help for the meetin’-house, but what this argument was dragged up by ’em. Tryin’ to shirk off their own duty onto somebody else.
“No,” says I, “her family is all dead. She hain’t got but one relation in the world, and that is an aunt of her grandmother’s; and she is supported by the town.”
“Wall,” says he, cheerfully, “mebby the town would feel like gettin’ this dress.”
I jest give him a look, and never said another word,—only jest that look. But I s’pose that look spoke louder and awfuler than words, for he hastened to say, in a apologizin’ way:
“I didn’t know but the town would want to—would feel it a privilege to—”
I still didn’t say nothin’, only jest that awful look. And agin he says, in a apologizin’ way:
“I would advance the six-pence to you, I would try to raise it some way for you, but the hard times we have had, and are havin’, have depressed all sorts of business so, we have suffered terribly financially as well as the other public. We have got a great deal of money to make out this fall—over 10 dollars. Father hain’t a bit well; my health hain’t what it once was; our expenses are enormious—taxes, household expenses, clothin’; and takin’ all these things into consideration, together with the public debt, the withdrawal of funds by foreign capitalists, the almost total stagnation of public enterprize, the total lack of public confidence, the total—”
Says I, “Put in total selfishness and total meanness, and keep your six-pence.”
I don’t believe I have been more wore out in over seven months,—and mad.