“He’ll come,” said the woman.
“Very good.”
“Would you mind, sir, to give Joe a little in advance? I’ll see he comes.”
“Why not? Certainly!”
“The fact is, Joe he’d never think to ask it; he’s that modest.”
Carington, who had been looking at her husband’s face, was of opinion that he was pretty full of whisky, and just now dulled with drink. Still, he was a good workman, and the misery in which they lived was but too obvious. He might have found a more certain agent, but then he would have lacked excuses for the interviews which his present purpose required.
“I will tell you just what we want when you come over, and, as to pay, I shall be glad to give you now a moderate advance.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Joe.
“He’ll come to-morrow, sure. Fact is,” she went on, “we ain’t a dollar, and there’s no work, and this house, there’s a man in Mackenzie’s got a mortgage on it, and the pork’s about out.”
“Will you have to go?”