pushed his way, for once, into the presence of the literary lady.
"Now, see here! Now, see here!" he cackled. "This won't do at all, Widder—this won't do at all! I want my money, and I want it prompt. And if you can't pay your present rent prompt, how do you expect to pay it next month, when you must find three dollars more? Now, tell me that, Ma'am?"
"Really, Mr. Chumley! You are too bad," complained Mrs. Morse. "I am so hard at work. You quite drive the ideas out of my head. I—I don't know what train of thought I was following."
Mr. Chumley snorted. "You'd better be huntin' the advertisement columns of a newspaper for a job, Widder," he said. "Them 'trains of thought' of yours won't never carry you nowhere. I gotter have my money. How are you going to get it?"
"I have never failed to pay you heretofore, have I?" asked the lady, bringing out her handkerchief now. "I think this is too bad"
"But I want money!"
"And you shall have it. I have considerable owing to me—oh, yes! a good deal more than sufficient to pay your rent, Mr. Chumley. You will get it."
