my reply."

Quigg felt that he was losing ground on these side issues. "Well,
Whedell, we must have a settlement to day. You owe me one hundred and
fifty dollars. Turn over all your furniture to me, and we'll call
it square."

Mrs. Chiffield doubled her sobs anew. But Mr. Whedell said, "Very good.
Take everything, I shall want nothing where I am going."

Quigg had been accustomed to these dark hints from contumacious debtors,
and was not to be frightened. "I accept your offer," said he, "and will
take everything."

At this moment, a rush, as of many feet, was heard upon the stairs. The
owners of the feet appeared to be literally tumbling up in their anxiety
to get up. By the time Quigg could open the door, a half dozen flushed
persons were ready to step in, and did so, brushing him aside. More than
a score of others followed, and all plunged pell mell into the presence
of Mr. Whedell and daughter.

"Here we are, Mr. Whedell, by appintment," said the spokesman of the
party, Rickarts, the shoemaker.

"I see you are," responded the placid Whedell. "Take seats, if you can
find them, gentlemen." This with a real smile, for he thought of the
arsenic, and the immeasurable relief that it would afford him.

"We don't want seats, Mr. Whedell; and, if we did, there isn't enough
for all of us. We want our pay, and have got tired of waitin' down
stairs for it. You put us all off to the 1st of May, you know, expecting
you said, to raise money enough by the marriage of your daughter (excuse
the remark, marm, but business is business) to pay off all of us. We
found, on comparin' notes down stairs, this mornin', that you had told
the same story to everybody. Now, sir, as your daughter is married,
accordin' to the papers, and the 1st of May has arriv', will you be good
enough to square up?"

Mr. Whedell smiled touchingly. "My good and patient friends," said he,
"nothing would give me greater pleasure--I might say, without
exaggeration, rapture--than to pay all that I owe, with compound
interest thrown in. But, unfortunately for my excellent intentions, I
have no money."

"Blast me if that isn't just what we expected! I told 'em, down stairs,
that I'd bet ten to one you couldn't or wouldn't raise any think out of
your son-in-law."

"Your name is Rickarts, I believe?" asked Mr. Whedell.

"Yes, Rickarts!" growled the owner of the appellation, "You ought to
know it by this time; for I've dunned you often enough."

"True, Mr.