pudent. I'm
afraid you're a little too airy for me."

"Wouldn't you let the house to me, Mr. Jones?" asked the widow. "It's
worth a good deal more than the face of the mortgage."

"You couldn't get a dollar more, in my opinion," said the landlord. "As
to takin' you for a tenant, I haven't any assurance that you could pay
the rent."

"What rent do you want for it, Mr. Jones?"

"Five dollars a month."

"Five dollars a month, when you say it's only worth two hundred
dollars!"

"I'm goin' to fix it up a little," said Mr. Jones, rather nonplussed.

"I think, Mr. Jones, we won't move," said Robert.

"Won't move?" ejaculated the landlord, getting red in the face. "You've
got to move."

"Who says so?"

"I say so, you young whelp!"

"No hard names, if you please, Mr. Jones. The fact is, my aunt doesn't
fancy going to the poorhouse. To be sure, if she could have your society
there it might make a difference."

"You'll repent this impudence, Bob Coverdale!"

"How am I impudent?"

"To talk of my being in the poorhouse!"

"You spoke of Aunt Jane going to the poorhouse."

"That's a different matter."

"At any rate, she won't go!" said Robert decidedly.

"Won't? We'll see about that. How are you going to help it?"

"By paying the mortgage," answered Robert quietly.

"You can't do it," said Mr. Jones, his jaw drooping.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Jones. If you'll write a receipt, I am ready to
pay it now--principal and interest."

Robert drew out a roll of bills from the pocket of his ragged vest and
began to count them.

"Where did you get this money?" ejaculated the landlord.

"I must decline telling you, Mr. Jones. It's good money, as you can see.
I think you'll have to tell Frank Shelton he can't have the house unless
he wants to hire of my aunt."

Nahum Jones hated to take the money that was offered him, but there was
no loophole to escape. The good bargain was slipping from his grasp. The
triumphant look faded from his face, and he looked exceedingly ill at
ease.

"I'll come up with you for this, Bob Coverdale!" he muttered angrily.

"For what? Paying you money, Mr. Jones?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do know what you mean," returned the boy gravely. "This money is
in payment for liquor furnished to my poor uncle--liquor which broke up
the happiness of his home and finally led to his death. You laid a plot
to deprive my aunt, whom you had so much injured, of her home, but you
have been de