Where is your
last monthly allowance?"
"Gone, of course," answered the son, in a loud and insolent tone. "Do
you expect to keep me on miserable driblets like that?"
"Thirty dollars a week, and board and lodging, are enough for any
reasonable young man, Myndert. I cannot give you more."
The son glared on his father and Marcus Wilkeson (holding the latter
chiefly responsible for the refusal) with amazement.
"Since you are obstinate, then, make it three hundred." The son had
often been able to obtain half or two thirds of what he originally
asked, as a compromise.
Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked
Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm
of the chair with his thin white hand:
"Not one cent!"
The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes
sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied:
"Very well, sir. Be as stingy as you please. Take the advice of your new
friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too. But
remember, I must have money, and I will have it!"
Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought
to terms by this vague but dreadful threat.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241