“Then you've come to the wrong shop; that's all I have to say,” was the blunt answer.
“Don't say that, Mr. Jones. Hear my story first.”
“I do say it, and I'm in earnest,” returned Jones. “I feel as poor as Job's turkey to-day.”
“I only want a dollar to help a poor widow pay her rent,” said Lyon.
“Oh, hang all the poor widows! If that's your game, you'll get nothing here. I've got my hands full to pay my own rent. A nice time I'd have in handing out a dollar to every poor widow in town to help pay her rent! No, no, my friend, you can't get anything here.”
“Just as you feel about it,” said Andrew Lyon. “There's no compulsion in the matter.”
“No, I presume not,” was rather coldly replied.
Lyon returned to his shop, still more disheartened than before. He had undertaken a thankless office.
Nearly two hours elapsed before his resolution to persevere in the good work he had begun came back with sufficient force to prompt to another effort. Then he dropped in upon his neighbour Tompkins, to whom he made known his errand.
“Why, yes, I suppose I must do something in a case like this,” said Tompkins, with the tone and air of a man who was cornered. “But there are so many calls for charity, that we are naturally enough led to hold on pretty tightly to our purse strings. Poor woman! I feel sorry for her. How much do you want?”