“I’m sure I don’t know,” repeated Frankie, looking round the room in a thoughtful manner, “The chairs that’s left aren’t good enough to sell, and we can’t sell the beds, or your sofa, but you might pawn my velvet suit.”
“But even if all the things were good enough to sell, the money we’d get for them wouldn’t last very long, and what should we do then?”
“Well, I suppose we’d have to go without, that’s all, the same as we did when Dad was in London.”
“But how do the people who never do any work manage to get lots of money then?” added Frankie.
“Oh, there’s lots of different ways. For instance, you remember when Dad was in London, and we had no food in the house, I had to sell the easy chair.”
Frankie nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I remember you wrote a note and I took it to the shop, and afterwards old Didlum came up here and bought it, and then his cart came and a man took it away.”
“And do you remember how much he gave us for it?”
“Five shillings,” replied Frankie, promptly. He was well acquainted with the details of the transaction, having often heard his father and mother discuss it.
“And when we saw it in his shop window a little while afterwards, what price was marked on it?”
“Fifteen shillings.”