“But, Mrs. R——, your son promised to go out the first of sleighing.”
“Wheugh!” said the old woman. “Would you have a man give away his hat and leave his own head bare? It's neither the first snow nor the last frost that will turn Joe out of his comfortable home. I tell you all that he will stay here, if it is only to plague you.”
Threats and remonstrances were alike useless, the old woman remained inexorable; and we were just turning to leave the house, when the cunning old fox exclaimed, “And now, what will you give me to leave my place?”
“Twelve dollars, if you give us possession next Monday,” said my husband.
“Twelve dollars! I guess you won't get me out for that.”
“The rent would not be worth more than a dollar a month,” said Mr. ——, pointing with his cane to the dilapidated walls. “Mr. Moodie has offered you a year's rent for the place.”
“It may not be worth a cent,” returned the woman; “for it will give everybody the rheumatism that stays a week in it—but it is worth that to me, and more nor double that just now to him. But I will not be hard with him,” continued she, rocking herself to and fro. “Say twenty dollars, and I will turn out on Monday.”
“I dare say you will,” said Mr. ——, “and who do you think would be fool enough to give you such an exorbitant sum for a ruined old shed like this?”
“Mind your own business, and make your own bargains,” returned the old woman, tartly. “The devil himself could not deal with you, for I guess he would have the worst of it. What do you say, sir?” and she fixed her keen eyes upon my husband, as if she would read his thoughts. “Will you agree to my price?”
“It is a very high one, Mrs. R——; but as I cannot help myself, and you take advantage of that, I suppose I must give it.”