“Ten dollars a month.”
“Could you make it twelve?”
“Call it fifty,” said Sam, lighting a black cigar, “at ninety days, and open the beer, Willie, and it’s a deal.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Bob. “I say, Willie, you may raise the rent to twenty dollars if you like, and run and tell your father, if it will do him any good.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried Willie, and he ran home with a light heart, singing merrily.
When he got home he found Mr. Flint sinking fast and muttering something about giving his wife a ten-dollar bill.
“He is out of his head,” said Mrs. Flint, bursting into tears.
Willie ran to the bed and whispered to his father’s ear: “Papa, I have raised the rent of one of your offices from ten to twenty dollars.”
“You, my child!” said his father, laying his hand on Willie’s head. “God bless my brave little boy.”
Mr. Flint sank into a peaceful slumber and his fever left him. The next day he was able to sit up, and feeling much stronger, when Willie told him whose rent it was he had raised.