"Six dollars a month! And in New York I paid twenty-five dollars a
month for five rooms, and thought myself lucky!"
"Twenty--five--dollars--a month!" echoed Caleb. "Why, if it's a fair
question, how much money did you make?"
"Eighty dollars a month, with a certainty of a twenty per cent increase
every year. 'Twasn't much, but I was sure of getting it. From what
you've been telling me, I'm not absolutely sure of anything whatever
here, unless I do a lot of special and peculiar work--and after I've
earned the money by delivering the goods."
"Well, your uncle averaged somethin' between three an' four thousan',
clear, ev'ry year, an' he come by it honestly, too, but there's no
denyin' that he had to work for it. From seven in the mornin' to nine
at night in winter; five in the mornin' till sundown in summer, to say
nothin' of watchin' the pork-house work till all hours of the night
throughout the season--a matter o' two months. He always went to sleep
in church Sunday mornin', but the minister didn't hold it agin him.
That reminds me: your uncle was a class-leader, an' the brethren are
quietly sizin' you up to see if you can take the job where he left off.
I hope you'll fetch."
"Thank you, Caleb," said Philip, closing his eyes as if to exclude
the prospect. "But tell me," he said a moment later, "why my uncle
did so much for so little. Don't imagine that I underrate three or
four thousand dollars a year, but--money is worth only what it really
brings or does. That's the common-sense view of the matter, isn't it?"
"Yes; I can't see anythin' the matter with it."
"But uncle got nothing for his money but ordinary food, clothes, and
shelter, and seems to have worked as hard as any overworked laborer."
"Well, I reckon he was doin' what the rest of us do in one way or
other; he was countin' on what there might be in the future. He
b'lieved in a good time comin'."
"Yes,--in heaven, perhaps, but not here."
"That's where you're mistaken, for he did expect it here--right here,
in Claybanks."