"Sir," said I, much displeased, "these intemperate ebullitions will
necessarily terminate our conference."

"Conference be hanged!" he rejoined. "You may as well give it up. You
are not going to get the first red cent out of me."

"Have I referred, Sir," said I, "to the inelegant coin you name?"

The creature grinned. "I shall pay your mother's income quarterly, and
do the best I can by her," he continued; "and if you want to make a
man of yourself, I'll give you a chance in the bakery with me; or Sam
Bratley will take you into his brewery; or Bob into his pork-packery."

I checked my indignation. The vulgarian wished to drag me, a Chylde,
down to the Bratley level. But I suppressed my wrath, for fear he might
find some pretext for suppressing the quarterly income, and alleged my
delicate health as a reason for my refusing his insulting offer.

"Well," said he, "I don't see as there is anything else for you to do,
except to find some woman fool enough to marry you, as Betsey did your
father. There's a hundred dollars!"

I have seldom seen dirtier bills than those he produced and handed to
me. Fortunately I was in deep mourning and my gloves were dark lead
color.

"That's right," says he,--"grab 'em and fob 'em. Now go to Newport and
try for an heiress, and don't let me see your tallow face inside of my
door for a year."