"You'll keep a respectful tongue between your teeth, that's what you'll do," and Motor Matt stepped resolutely toward the broker.
There was something in the lad's bearing that caused Murgatroyd to grab his hat and retreat precipitately to the door.
"You'll hear from me, the pair of you," he snarled, "before you're many hours older."
Then the door slammed. Through the open window, edged with its torn streamers of mosquito net, Matt could see the broker hustling through the gate. A choking sob struck on the lad's ears, and he whirled to find Mrs. Traquair in a chair, her face in her hands.
There were ample evidences of poverty in the bare little front room, and the appearance of the woman herself testified eloquently of a fierce effort to keep the wolf from the door by grinding toil. Matt's heart was full of sympathy for her in her trouble.
"Don't take it so hard, Mrs. Traquair," said Matt, stepping to her side. "There may be a way out of this."
She lifted her head.
"No, there is no way out," she answered, in a stifled voice, "you don't know Mr. Murgatroyd! You don't know what it means to owe him money and not be able to pay him even the interest."
"How much do you owe him?"
"Just a thousand dollars."