Five Hundred Dollars | Page 8

Barton will be glad to
have you pay her a short visit. I will get Percy to drive you down
there."
"Thank you," answered the old man, dryly, "but it's only a little way,
and I don't mind walking."
"Just as you prefer," said the squire, relieved by Uncle Jacob's
declination of his offer, for he knew that Percy would not enjoy the
trip.

"I'll get ready to go at once, Albert. Oh, about my plan of opening a
cigar store in Lakeville?"
"I cannot advise you to do it," rejoined the squire, hastily. "You
wouldn't make enough to pay your rent, or not much more."
"Don't the men in your factory smoke? There's a good many of them. If
I could get their trade----"
"They smoke pipes for the most part," said the squire, hurriedly.
"They'd find cigars too expensive."
"I meant to combine candy with cigars. That would be a help."
"They keep candy at the grocery store, Uncle Jacob."
"I see there isn't much show for me. Now if I only understood your
business, you could give me something to do in the factory, Albert."
"But you don't, and, in fact, Uncle Jacob, it's too hard work for a man
of your age."
"Then what would you advise me to do, Albert?" asked the old man,
earnestly.
Squire Marlowe assumed a thoughtful look. In fact, he was puzzled to
decide how best to get rid of the troublesome old man. To have him
remain in Lakeville was not to be thought of. He would gladly have got
rid of Mrs. Barton and her son, whose relationship to his family was
unfortunately known, but there seemed to be no way clear to that
without the expenditure of money. To have Uncle Jacob for a neighbor,
in addition, would be a source of mortification, not only to himself, but
even more to his wife and Percy, whose aristocratic ideas he well knew.
"I think you told me you had five hundred dollars," he said, after a
pause.
"About that."

"Then I really think it would be the best thing you could do to go back
to California, where you are known, and where you can doubtless
obtain some humble employment which will supply your moderate
wants. It won't cost you much for dress----"
"No, Albert; this coat and vest will do me for best five years longer."
"Just so! That is fortunate. So you see you've only got your board to
pay."
"I might get sick," suggested Uncle Jacob, doubtfully.
"You look pretty healthy. Besides, you'll have part of your five hundred
dollars left, you know."
"That's so! What a good calculator you are, Albert! Besides, if things
came to the worst, there's that five hundred dollars I lent your father
twenty-seven years ago. No doubt you'd pay me back, and----"
"I don't know what you refer to," said Squire Marlowe, coldly.
"Surely you haven't forgot the time when your father was so driven for
money, when you were a lad of fifteen, and I let him have all I had
except about fifty dollars that I kept for a rainy day."
"This is news to me, Uncle Jacob," said the squire, with a chilling
frown. "You must excuse me for saying that I think you labor under a
delusion."
Uncle Jacob surveyed his neighbor intently, with a gaze which
disconcerted him in spite of his assurance.
"Fortunately, I am able to prove what I say," he rejoined, after a slight
pause.
He drew from his pocket a wallet which bore the signs of long wear,
and, opening it, deliberately drew out a folded sheet of note paper,
grown yellow with age and brittle with much handling. Then, adjusting
his spectacles, he added: "Here's something I'd like to read to you,

Albert. It's written by your father:
MY DEAR JACOB:
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for lending me the five
hundred dollars I so urgently need. I know it is very nearly, if not quite,
all you possess in the world, and that you can ill spare it. It will save
me from failure, and sometime I hope to repay it to you. If I cannot, I
will ask my son Albert to do so when he is able. I don't want you to
lose by your kindness to me.
Your affectionate brother, CHARLES MARLOWE.
"You can see the signature, Albert. You know your father's handwriting,
don't you?"
Squire Marlowe reluctantly took the paper and glanced at it.
"It may be my father's writing," he said.
"May be!" repeated the old man, indignantly. "What do you mean by
that?"
"I dare say it is. In fact, I remember his mentioning the matter to me
before he died."
"What did he say?"
"That it was quite a favor