“Why, would you believe it, sir, I have not sold twenty shillings’ worth o’ goods all last week, and only one wax-doll within the month, although it’s gettin’ well on for Christmas-time? One would a’most fancy the childr’n was about to give up such vanities an’ devote themselves to serious business. It’s a serious business for the like of us, anyhow.”
Again Mr Boone smiled, and again failed to make an agreeable impression on his visitor, who demanded in a surly tone if he had been thinking over it, and made up his mind to do it.
Boone’s face changed at this indefinite question, and became a shade paler than it was by nature, as he replied, hesitatingly, that he had been thinking over it, and that he had made up his mind not to do it.
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Gorman in a tone of irony. “Very good; then I’ll trouble you to pay me the three hundred pounds you owe me by this day next week, and the rent of this here tenement for last half.”
Boone’s face became still paler.
“You’re a hard landlord,” said he.
“You’re a soft tenant,” retorted Gorman.
“You know what the punishment is by law,” continued Boone.
“Yes—death,” said the other drily; “but you know as well as I do that it’s never carried out nowadays.”
“But penal servitude for ten or twenty years ain’t much better.”