Tim. "He don't know no Greek, or Latin, or mathematics--phew, that's a
hard word. You didn't tell me you wanted him made a scholar of."

"I didn't. I wanted never to see or hear from him again. What made you
bring him back to New York?"

"Couldn't keep away, governor. I got homesick, I did. There ain't but
one Bowery in the world, and I hankered after that----"

"Didn't I pay you money to keep away, Tim Bolton?"

"I don't deny it; but what's three thousand dollars? Why, the kid's
cost me more than that. I've had the care of him for fourteen years,
and it's only about two hundred a year."

"You have broken your promise to me!" said Curtis, sternly.

"There's worse things than breaking your promise," retorted Bolton.

Scarcely had he spoken than a change came over his face, and he stared
open-mouthed behind him and beyond Curtis.

Startled himself, Curtis turned, and saw, with a feeling akin to
dismay, the tall figure of his uncle standing on the threshold of the
left portal, clad in a morning gown, with his eyes fixed inquiringly
upon Bolton and himself.