"Then you must make your pay answer for the next six months," cried the father, taking a signed draft on his banker from his pocket, coolly tearing it in two pieces, carefully putting the name in his mouth, and chewing it into a ball.
"Why, alderman," said his wife (a name she never used unless she had something to gain from her spouse, who loved to hear the appellation after he had relinquished the office), "it appears to me that Harry has shown nothing but a proper spirit. You are unkind—indeed you are."
"A proper spirit? In what way? Do you know anything of the matter?"
"It is a proper spirit for a soldier to fight, I suppose," said the wife, a little at a loss to explain.
"Spirit, or no spirit, apology or ten and sixpence."
"Harry," said his mother, holding up her finger in a menacing attitude, as soon as her husband had left the room (for he had last spoken with the door in his hand), "if you do beg his pardon, you are no son of mine."
"No," cried Miss Sarah, "nor any brother of mine. It would be insufferably mean."
"Who will pay my debts?" asked the son, looking up at the ceiling.
"Why, I would, my child, if—if—I had not spent my own allowance."
"I would," echoed the sister; "but if we go to Bath, you know, I shall want all my money."
"Who will pay my debts?" repeated the son.
"Apology, indeed! Who is he, that you, a son of Alderman—of—Mr. Jarvis, of the deanery, B, Northamptonshire, should beg his pardon,—a vagrant that nobody knows!"
"Who will pay my debts?" again inquired the captain drumming with his foot."
"Harry," exclaimed the mother, "do you love money better than honor—a soldier's honor?"
"No, mother; but I like good eating and drinking. Think, mother; it's a cool five hundred, and that's a famous deal of money."
