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“He wouldn’t give a cent,” announced Mrs. Pottle, blotting up the nucleus of a tear on her cheek with the tip of her gloved finger. “‘Not one red cent,’ was the way he put it.”
“What did you want a red cent for, honey?” inquired Mr. Pottle, absently, from out the depths of the sporting page. “Who wouldn’t give you a red cent?”
“Old Felix Winterbottom,” she answered.
Mr. Pottle put down his paper.
“Do you mean to say you tackled old frosty-face Felix himself?” he demanded with interest and some awe.
“I certainly did,” replied his wife. “Right in his own office.”
Her spouse made no attempt to conceal his admiration.
“What did you say; then what did he say; then what did you say?” he queried.
“I was very polite,” Mrs. Pottle answered, “and tactful. I said ‘See here, now, Mr. Winterbottom, you are the richest man in the county, and yet you have the reputation of being the most careful with your money
