"Be still, Fitz!" said his mother.
"I will not be still, mother," protested Mr. Wittleworth. "I will not stand still and have you imposed upon."
The banker sprang out of his chair, and his late clerk retreated a pace or two.
"Mr. Checkynshaw, I have only one word to say," he added, placing himself near enough to the door to effect a hasty retreat in case of necessity. "My mother is disposed to accept your offer of ten thousand dollars for a quitclaim deed of the block of stores. I don't intend that she shall do anything of the kind. I've been to my lawyer, sir—a gentleman recommended by Choate; for Choate is so busy that he can't attend to the case personally; and my lawyer says that none but a non compos would give a quitclaim deed to the property. If my mother sees fit to sign any such paper, my lawyer will take steps to restrain her, sir. Those are my views. I've nothing more to say, Mr. Checkynshaw."
Mr. Wittleworth tipped his hat over on one side, thrust his thumbs into his arm-holes, and pursed up his lips again, as though he had already set the river on fire. His mother was angry and disgusted with him, as she often had occasion to be.
"Is the quitclaim deed ready, Mr. Checkynshaw?" asked the poor woman.
"No; but it shall be ready, and the check with it to-morrow."
"Mother," exclaimed Fitz, in warning tones,—and he evidently did not place much dependence upon the restraining power of his lawyer,—"you promised not to sign any paper to-day."
"And you promised to behave yourself, Fitz, if I permitted you to come with me. I can't depend upon you, and I am going to accept Mr. Checkynshaw's offer," retorted his mother, sharply.
"You are?" gasped Fitz.