“We—we—need some flour,” was the hesitating reply.
“A barrel?” suggested Harvey, turning to a fresh page of his order book.
“No—no—no—I—I guess ten pounds, and—I guess that’s about all, Harvey.”
“Now you’ll excuse me if I doubt your word, Mrs. Welcome,” said Harvey, writing down fifty pounds of flour quickly. “Come now, tell me what you do really want.”
“O, what’s the use. We need everything, we—” Mrs. Welcome broke down and began to weep softly as she turned toward the house.
“Now hold on, Mrs. Welcome, don’t break away from me like that!” Harvey followed her and laid his hand gently on her arm. “I hope Mr. Welcome isn’t drinking again. Is he?”
“I’m afraid so, Harvey.” Mrs. Welcome’s frail shoulders quivered as she attempted to restrain her sobs. “Why, Tom hasn’t been home for two days and—and our rent is due—and—”
Harvey Spencer interrupted with a prolonged whistle which seemed to be the best way he could think of expressing sympathy. A light dawned on him.
“That’s why young Harry Boland is here from Chicago, to collect the rent, eh?” he inquired.
Mrs. Welcome nodded assent, “Yes,” she said, “Mr. Boland has been very kind. He has waited two weeks and—and—we can’t pay him.”