"I'm afraid I couldn't swing it," declared he, regret in his tone.
"But we are offering to do this for you," put in Grandfather Fernald.
"I know you are, sir; I know you are and I'm grateful," Ted's father answered. "But if I could manage it myself, I'd——"
"Come, Mr. Turner, I beg you won't say that," interrupted the elder Mr. Fernald. "Think what we owe to your son. Why, we never in all the world can repay what he has done for us. This is no favor. We are simply paying our debts. You like to pay your bills, don't you?"
"Indeed I do, sir!" was the hearty reply. "There's no happier moment than the one when I take my pay envelope and go to square up what I owe. True, I don't run up many bills; still, there is not always money enough on hand to make both ends meet without depending some on credit."
"How much do you get in the shipping room?"
"Eighty dollars a month, sir."
"And your daughters are working?"
"They are in the spinning mills."
Mr. Fernald glanced about over the little room. Although scrupulously neat, it was quite apparent that the apartment was far too crowded for comfort. The furnishings also bespoke frugality in the extreme. It was not necessary to be told that the Turners' life was a close arithmetical problem.