“I will,” said Mr. Jones emphatically. “You talk about my not being in my own house, but it’s just possible you are mistaken.” “What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Trafton, startled. “I mean this, that I hold a mortgage on this house for two hundred dollars, and that’s as much as it will fetch at auction. What do you say to that?” Robert looked and felt as much troubled as his aunt. On his young shoulders fell this new burden, and he was at an utter loss what could be done. “I thought I’d shut you up, you young cub!” said the landlord, glancing maliciously at Robert. “You haven’t shut me up!” retorted Robert with spirit. “What have you got to say, hey?” “That you ought to be ashamed to take all my uncle’s earnings and then steal his home. That’s what I’ve got to say!” “I’ve a great mind to give you a caning,” said Mr. Jones in a rage. “You’d better not!” said Robert. He was as tall as the landlord, and though not as strong, considerably more active, and he did not feel in the least frightened. Nahum Jones was of a choleric disposition, and his face was purple with rage, but he hadn’t yet said all he intended. “I give you warning, Mrs. Trafton,” he said, shaking his cane at our hero, “that I’m going to foreclose this mortgage and turn you into the street. You’ve got yourself to thank, you and this young rascal. I came here thinking I’d be easy with you, but I don’t mean to stand your insulting talk. I’ll give you four weeks to raise the money, and if you don’t do it, out you go, bag and baggage. Perhaps when you’re in the poorhouse you may be sorry you didn’t treat me better.” “Oh, Robert, what shall we do?” asked the poor woman, her courage failing as she reflected on the possibility that the landlord’s prediction might be fulfilled. “Don’t be alarmed, Aunt Jane; I’ll take care of you,” said Robert more cheerfully than he felt. “Oh, you will, will you?” sneered Mr. Jones. “Anybody’d think to hear you that you were worth a pile of money. If your aunt depends on you to keep her out of the poorhouse, I would not give much for her chance.” “You won’t have the satisfaction of seeing either of us there,” said Robert defiantly. “You needn’t expect my wife to give you any more sewing,” said Mr. Jones, scowling at the widow. “I don’t think my aunt wants any, considering she hasn’t been paid for the last work she did,” said Robert. “What do you mean by that? I credited your uncle with twenty-five cents on his score.” “Without my aunt’s consent.” Mr. Jones was so incensed at the defiant mien of the boy that he rocked violently to and fro--so violently that the chair, whose rockers were short, tipped over backward and the wrathful landlord rolled ignominiously on the floor. “Here’s you hat, Mr. Jones,” said Robert, smiling in spite of himself as he picked it up and restored it to the mortified visitor.