"Yes, I'll hold him. Go away now, and shut the door, and don't listen."
Prosperity tiptoed out, and seating herself on an upturned firkin, she seized a stick used for agitating clothes in boiling water, and gently stirred the sleeper with it.
He opened his eyes and calmly stared at her.
"You're a nice young man," she said, ironically, and turning a lamp bracket nearer his face and farther away from her own.
He made no reply to this remark, beyond cautiously moving his foot.
"Is it any better?" she asked.
"Yes, that old coon rubbed it. I'm much obliged, ma'am."
His manner was slightly conciliatory, yet she broke into denunciation. "You need not try to soften me. You ought to be hanged. If a few young rascals like you were strung up, you'd save a million others following in your steps. Now what have I ever done that you should break into my house, and try to rob me of hard-earned money,—money earned by the sweat of the brow of my ancestors. Who are you, I say, that you should deprive me of it?"
"The world owes me a living," he said, sullenly.
"A living—an honest living. Now what do you make out of your line of life,—just tell me?"