Oh, Money! Money! | Page 7

the old Gaylord place. There, sit here, Flora. You look tired."
"Thanks. I be--turrible tired. Warm, too, ain't it?" The little dressmaker began to fan herself with the hat she had taken off. "My, 'tis fur over here, ain't it? Not much like 'twas when you lived right 'round the corner from me! And I had to put on a hat and gloves, too. Someway, I thought I ought to--over here."
Condescendingly the bepuffed head threw an approving nod in her direction.
"Quite right, Flora. The East Side is different from the West Side, and no mistake. And what will do there won't do here at all, of course."
"How about father's shirt-sleeves?" It was a scornful gibe from Bessie in the hammock. "I don't notice any of the rest of the men around here sitting out like that."
"Bessie!" chided her mother wearily. "You know very well I'm not to blame for what your father wears. I've tried hard enough, I'm sure!"
"Well, well, Hattie," sighed the man, with a gesture of abandonment. "I supposed I still had the rights of a freeborn American citizen in my own home; but it seems I haven't." Resignedly he got to his feet and went into the house. When he returned a moment later he was wearing his coat.
Benny, perched precariously on the veranda railing, gave a sudden indignant snort. Benny was eight, the youngest of the family.
"Well, I don't think I like it here, anyhow," he chafed. "I'd rather go back an' live where we did. A feller can have some fun there. It hasn't been anything but 'Here, Benny, you mustn't do that over here, you mustn't do that over here!' ever since we came. I'm going home an' live with Aunt Flora. Say, can't I, Aunt Flo?"
"Bless the child! Of course you can," beamed his aunt. "But you won't want to, I'm sure. Why, Benny, I think it's perfectly lovely here."
"Pa don't."
"Indeed I do, Benny," corrected his father hastily. "It's very nice indeed here, of course. But I don't think we can afford it. We had to squeeze every penny before, and how we're going to meet this rent I don't know." He drew a profound sigh.
"You'll earn it, just being here--more business," asserted his wife firmly. "Anyhow, we've just got to be here, Jim! We owe it to ourselves and our family. Look at Fred to-night!"
"Oh, yes, where is Fred?" queried Miss Flora.
"He's over to Gussie Pennock's, playing tennis," interposed Bessie, with a pout. "The mean old thing wouldn't ask me!"
"But you ain't old enough, my dear," soothed her aunt. "Wait; your turn will come by and by."
"Yes, that's exactly it," triumphed the mother. "Her turn WILL come-- if we live here. Do you suppose Fred would have got an invitation to Gussie Pennock's if we'd still been living on the East Side? Not much he would! Why, Mr. Pennock's worth fifty thousand, if he's worth a dollar! They are some of our very first people."
"But, Hattie, money isn't everything, dear," remonstrated her husband gently. "We had friends, and good friends, before."
"Yes; but you wait and see what kind of friends we have now!"
"But we can't keep up with such people, dear, on our income; and--"
"Ma, here's a man. I guess he wants--somebody." It was a husky whisper from Benny.
James Blaisdell stopped abruptly. Bessie Blaisdell and the little dressmaker cocked their heads interestedly. Mrs. Blaisdell rose to her feet and advanced toward the steps to meet the man coming up the walk.
He was a tall, rather slender man, with a close-cropped, sandy beard, and an air of diffidence and apology. As he took off his hat and came nearer, it was seen that his eyes were blue and friendly, and that his hair was reddish-brown, and rather scanty on top of his head.
"I am looking for Mr. Blaisdell--Mr. James Blaisdell," he murmured hesitatingly.
Something in the stranger's deferential manner sent a warm glow of importance to the woman's heart. Mrs. Blaisdell was suddenly reminded that she was Mrs. James D. Blaisdell of the West Side.
"I am Mrs. Blaisdell," she replied a bit pompously. "What can we do for you, my good man?" She swelled again, half unconsciously. She had never called a person "my good man" before. She rather liked the experience.
The man on the steps coughed slightly behind his hand--a sudden spasmodic little cough. Then very gravely he reached into his pocket and produced a letter.
"From Mr. Robert Chalmers--a note to your husband," he bowed, presenting the letter.
A look of gratified surprise came into the woman's face.
"Mr. Robert Chalmers, of the First National? Jim!" She turned to her husband joyously. "Here's a note from Mr. Chalmers. Quick--read it!"
Her husband, already on his feet, whisked the sheet of paper from the unsealed envelope, and adjusted his glasses. A moment later he held out a cordial