Poppa winced again at being a prophet without honor in his own home. “Oh, I guess he ain’t the only rich folks in the world. He said he saw I was a director in the Third National Bank, and he wanted to enlarge his capital, and he could offer me a chance to git in on the ground floor of a patent locomotive stoker he was pushing. He said he was a little short of cash.” “Sam Killip short of cash!” “Rich folks are always short of cash,” Poppa explained. “That’s why they’re rich. The minute they git any cash they put it into something and make it work. I was going to tell Sam I couldn’t see my way clear, but if Ella will look after you a little I’ll help him out.” This put a new face on the matter. Instead of going to New York as a decrepit, friendless villager, imploring the pity of an old acquaintance, on whom her only claim was old acquaintanceship, she was offered a chance to float in on her as a bearer of rich gifts. She climbed evenly and thought of the Three Wise Men. “I’d go there as a kind of a Mrs. Magi then?” “Yes! Exactly! And I guess she’d treat you like a grand duchess, or something.” “Oh, no, I don’t see how I could,” Momma sighed, slumping again, too deeply dejected to reach out and pluck the golden apple. But Poppa had more insight than anyone suspected, and he had caught the glint of interest in Momma’s eye. It was the first sparkle he had seen there for weeks, and, though it had been quenched at once, it emboldened him to tyranny. He got to his feet and left the house with a maddening mysteriousness. He was inspired to the amazing audacity of calling Mr. Killip on the long-distance telephone. He went to the hotel so that Momma could not interrupt him. When he had his New York victim by the ear he told him the whole story, and Killip, who was still human though a New Yorker, was as effusive in welcoming Momma as in accepting Poppa’s additional offer of money enough to stoke the stoker project to a hearty glow. Poppa went back and told Momma what he had done, and told her to pack up. Her next obstacle was: “But I got no clo’es here. I’ll have to go home and pack, and I just ain’t got the strength.” “You got no clothes at home either,” Hattie put in. “You can go downtown with me and get you some decent things. You can’t go to New York looking like an old farmer.” * * * * * This was the wrong note. Momma broke her moorings again. “I told you you was ashamed of me. I’m not fit to be seen in Terra Hut, let alone in New York. I’m simply not going to New York to make an exhabition of myself and make Ellar Killip turn up her nose at me.” This battle had lasted only a few hours longer when a telegram arrived from Ella herself: