"I have done so. Three dollars. I can get it. Besides, a woman alone ain't good pay," said Chumley. "And they're likely to fall behind any time in the rent. Most uncertain income"
"Is it true that Mrs. Morse writes for a living?"
"I don't know what sort of a livin' she makes. Foolish business. She'd better take in washing, or go out to day's work—that's what she'd better do," snarled the old man. "This messin' with pen, ink, an' a typewriter an' thinkin' she can buy pork an' pertaters on the proceeds"
"Perhaps she doesn't care for pork and potatoes, my friend," laughed the lady, eyeing Mr. Chumley whimsically.
But a flush had crept into the old man's withered cheek again. He was on his hobby and he rode it hard.
"Poor folks ain't no business to have finicky idees, or tastes," he declared. "They gotter work. That's what they was put in the world for—to work. There's too many of 'em trying to keep their hands clean, an' livin' above their means. Mary Morse is a good, strong, hearty woman. She'd ought to do something useful with her hands instead of doing silly things with her mind."
