"I know that, Mr. Berlaps. But only six are finished; and, as I want some money, I have brought them in."
"It is more than a week since we gave them out. You ought to have had the whole seven pair done. We want them all now. They should have been in day before yesterday."
"They would have been finished, Mr. Berlaps," said the woman, in a deprecating tone; "but one of my children has been sick; and I have had to be up with her so often every night, and have had to attend to her so much through the day, that I have not been able to do more than half work."
"Confound the children!" muttered the tailor to himself, as he began inspecting the woman's work. "They're always getting sick, or something else."
After carefully examining three or four pairs of the coarse trowsers which had been brought in, he pushed the whole from him with a quick impatient gesture and an angry scowl, saying, as he did so—
"Botched to death! I can't give you work unless it's done better, Mrs. Gaston. You grow worse and worse!"
"I know, sir," replied the woman, in a troubled voice, "that they are not made quite so well as they might be. But consider how much I have had against me. A sick child—and worn out by attendance on her night and day."
"It's always a sick child, or some other excuse, with the whole of you. But that don't answer me. I want my work done well, and mean to have it so. If you don't choose to turn out good work, I can find a plenty who will."
"You sha'n't complain of me hereafter, Mr. Berlaps," replied the woman submissively.
"So you have said before; but we shall see."