“Why, yes, in the old harness room. It’s partly ceiled, and we could put in some nice tar paper or even beaver board.”
“Mother Tozer, what the dickens do you think I’m planning to do? I’m not a hired man in a livery stable, or a kid looking for a place to put his birds’ eggs! I was thinking of opening an office as a physician!”
Bert made it all easy: “Yuh, but you aren’t much of a physician yet. You’re just getting your toes in.”
“I’m one hell of a good physician! Excuse me for cussing, Mother Tozer, but— Why, nights in the hospital, I’ve held hundreds of lives in my hand! I intend—”
“Look here, Mart,” said Bertie. “As we’re putting up the money— I don’t want to be a tightwad but after all, a dollar is a dollar—if we furnish the dough, we’ve got to decide the best way to spend it.”
Mr. Tozer looked thoughtful and said helplessly, “That’s so. No sense taking a risk, with the blame’ farmers demanding all the money they can get for their wheat and cream, and then deliberately going to work and not paying the interest on their loans. I swear, it don’t hardly pay to invest in mortgages any longer. No sense putting on lugs. Stands to reason you can look at a fellow’s sore throat or prescribe for an ear-ache just as well in a nice simple little office as in some fool place all fixed up like a Moorhead saloon. Mother will see you have a comfortable corner in the barn—”
Leora intruded: “Look here, Papa. I want you to lend us one thousand dollars, outright, to use as we see fit.” The sensation was immense. “We’ll pay you six per cent—no, we won’t; we’ll pay you five; that’s enough.”
“And mortgages bringing six, seven, and eight!” Bert quavered.
“Five’s enough. And we want our own say, absolute, as to how we use it—to fit up an office or anything else.”
Mr. Tozer began, “That’s a foolish way to—”