“Cases!” says Mis’ Toplady, distasteful. “They ain’t got the smallpox, have they? Say folks.”
“I guess you ain’t very used to Charity societies,” says Silas, tolerant. “Take the Haskitts. They ain’t got a pane o’ glass in their house.”
“Nor no wood, much,” says Timothy. “When I went to get the rent the cat was asleep on the cook-stove.”
“What rent do they give you, Timothy?” says Silas.
“Five dollars,” he says, pursin’ his lips.
“That’s only three per cent. on the money. I don’t see how you can afford it.”
“I am indulgin’ myself a little,” Timothy admits. “But I been thinkin’ o’ raisin’ it to six. One thing, though; I ain’t give ’em any repairs. If I’d had a six-dollar family in there I’d had to fixed the window-glass and cleaned out the cistern and mended the roof. It about evens itself up.”
“Yes,” says Silas, agreeful, “I guess it does. Well, they can have some boxes to burn, out of the store. I’ll take ’em on my list. You can’t go givin’ ’em truck, Timothy. If you do, they’ll come down on to you for repairs. Now the Ricker’s....”
Abigail Arnold spoke up. “They’re awful,” she says. “Mis’ Ricker ain’t fit to wash, and the children just show through. Ab’s arm won’t let him work all winter.”
“You take him, Silas,” says Timothy. “He’s your own employee.”