Harrington listened attentively to this account of the family colloquy on his absence from the dinner-table. Joel James was the Captain’s son, a sturdy schoolboy of ten. Sophronia was his daughter, a girl of fifteen. John H. was the youngest son, named after Harrington. Hannah was the Captain’s wife.
“John,” said the Captain, changing the subject, “two hundred and fifty’s not enough. I’m goin’ to raise it to three hundred.”
“Good!” exclaimed Harrington, with a jovial air. “I knew it was the rent! Eldad, this rent is our standing grievance. Well, I’m going to lower it to two hundred.”
“In which event, I’m going to move, bag and baggage,” retorted the Captain.
Harrington laughed aloud, and sat smiling at the Captain, whose quaint features were screwed into a grin, and momently lit in little flashes of red from the bowl of the pipe near his cheek.
“Eldad,” replied Harrington, “if I had my way, you should have the house rent free.”
“Of course you won’t,” continued Harrington; “but, Eldad, you were mother’s mainstay, and have been like a father to me since she died, and it grates on my feelings to have you paying me money. Well, no matter. Let it go. But I’ll be even with you one of these days.”
“Well,” returned the Captain, “it’s settled then?”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars, Eldad. Not another stiver. I’m resolved now.”
The Captain sighed, and smoked pensively.
“I lost a customer to-day, John,” he remarked, after a long pause.
“Indeed! Which induced you to increase your expenses, by raising the rent,” bantered Harrington.
“Collected for him these six years back,” continued the Captain, pensively. “Lem Atkins, you know.”
“Lemuel Atkins!” exclaimed Harrington, leaning forward. “Why that’s Mrs. Eastman’s brother.”
“Certain. Cotton merchant on Long Wharf, and a black sheep he is too. Webster Whig—pro-slavery up to the hub—reg’lar aristocrat every way. He was one of the Fifteen Hundred Scoundrels, as Phillips called ’em. Ruther guess all the bad that ever was in his sister and niece was drawn off before they were born, and bottled up in him.”
“And how came you to lose him?” interrogated Harrington.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” replied the Captain. “You see, I’ve collected the rents of eight of his houses for six years back—some of ’em went ruther aginst my grain, too. Poor houses, scacely fit for human bein’s to live in, two or three of ’em, and sech as no decent man would own or let out to anybody. Howiver. He gave me the memorandums of three more about a week ago. Mighty big rents Atkins gits for these dwellin’s, thinks I to myself, as I entered them on my book. Spoon o’ horn! I niver guessed it till I went down there yesterday, an’ found out what sort of houses them are for which Atkins gits his big rents.”