Gallery eBooks

"
"Don't press me--it worries me. I was in hopes you had thought no
more of it. I can NOT part with it--so there!"
"Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down on the
coffin-stool table. "How much do you get for making these spars?"
"Hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing
his work."
"Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "How much do you
get?"
"Eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly.
"Who are you making them for?"
"Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here."
"And how many can you make in a day?"
"In a day and half the night, three bundles--that's a thousand and
a half."
"Two and threepence." The barber paused. "Well, look here," he
continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which
calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable
monetary magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of
her present purse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a
sovereign--a gold sovereign, almost new.


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