“Going to squeal?”
“Going to tell all she knows.”
Paisley’s hand went up to his mouth; he changed color. “It’s like her,” he muttered—“oh, it’s just like her!” And he added a villanous epithet.
“None of that talk,” said Wickliff.
The man had jumped up and was pacing his narrow space, fighting against a climbing rage. “You see,” he cried, unable to contain himself—“you see, what makes me so mad is now I’ve got to get my mother to help me—and I’d rather take a licking!”
“I should think you would,” said Wickliff, dryly. “Say, this your mother?” He handed him the photograph, the written side upward.
“It came in a Bible,” explained Paisley, with an embarrassed air.
“Your mother rich?”
“She can raise the money.”
“Meaning, I expect, that she can mortgage her house and lot. Look here, Smith, this ain’t the first time your ma has sent you money, but if I was you I’d have the last time stay the last. She don’t look equal to much more hard work.”