"Some are sick."
"They are well enough to walk three miles to a brewery after a free drink."
"Some are too young to work."
"Hah! what's the use of having a parcel of young ones to be poor relations to the rest of the world?" asked he.
"Some are positively starving," said I.
"What of that? You have to let them starve. Five hundred thousand starved in India last year, a country overrun with sacred snakes and animals of all sorts that they might have eaten. Three millions starved in China, and they tore up their English railway, the only thing that could save them. What are you going to do about it? Starving! Bet they are wallowing in the theatre every night," said Nathan.
"The theatre with Lawrence Barrett! I wish they might see anything so elevating. Perhaps Othello might make some impression on them, such a stupendous temperance lecture it is!" I groaned.
"If you would leave the theatre alone you wouldn't be quite so short as you are now," asserted Uncle Nate, almost popping open with contempt.
"'Short,' man! 'Short' in your throat!" shouted I, forgetting myself.
"Yes, short; and it's my opinion you've shorted me in this business."