"Well, you've got to think, or you'll see a pair of soles flashing down the street. Does it stand to reason, because you've been brought up on plain food and are tough as door nails on it, that you've got to stick to it?"
"I—I don't know—" and in utter confusion Mrs. Prymmer tried to wonder whether her usually self-possessed cousin was going crazy.
"I've got to clear out," he said, suddenly rising and flinging himself toward the door. "You don't want to please me,—you don't care if I starve to death. I'll go down to the hotel. Good-bye, Hippolyta. If any one dies, send for me, and I'll come to the funeral."
"Micah, stop! stop!" cried the unhappy woman, clinging to him. "I can't spare your board money. Justin's salary isn't large, and my rents are slow coming in, and I've got to keep you. Tell me what I can do?"
"You'll not do it," he said, trying to get away from her.
"I will, I will, Micah, only try me," and genuine tears started in her eyes.
Captain White flung himself back on the sofa and tried not to look at her. "There'll be too much to do," he said, gloomily.
"No, no. I'll do anything."
"Would you give me hot biscuits for breakfast, and strong coffee,—none of your slops, and you've got to rinse out the coffee-pot every morning and not hold it over from one morning to another—"
"Yes, yes—"