"Probably haddocks," said Mrs. Pottle coldly. "He can keep his old red cents."
"He will, never fear," her husband assured her. "After the way he and his family have been treated by the Gulicks, I don't blame him."
Mrs. Pottle pumped up a sigh from the depths of a deep bosom and sank tearfully to a divan.
"And I'd set my heart on it," she sobbed.
"What, dear?"
"The Day Nursery. And it's to fail for want of a miserable thousand dollars."
"Don't speak disrespectfully of a thousand dollars, Blossom," Mr. Pottle enjoined his spouse. "That's five thousand shaves. And don't expect me to give anything more. You know perfectly well the barber-business is not what it used to be. I can't give another red cent."
Mrs. Pottle sniffed.
"Who asked you for your red cents?" she inquired, with spirit. "I'll make the money myself."
"You, Blossom?"