“How much interest do you owe?” asked Jerome, in an odd voice. He was very pale.
“Two hundred an' seventy dollars—it's twelve per cent.”
“And you can't raise it?”
“Might as well try to raise the dead.”
“Well, I can let you have it,” said Jerome.
“You?”
“Yes.”
His uncle looked at him with his sharp, strained eyes; then he made a hoarse noise, between a sob and a cough. “Rob you of that money you've been savin' to build your mill! We'll take to the woods first!” he cried.
“I've saved a good deal more than two hundred and seventy dollars.”
“You want every dollar of it for your mill. Don't talk to me.”