"And your room?" asked Myner.
"O, my room is all right, I think," said I. "She is a
very good old lady, and has never even mentioned her
bill."
"Because she is a very good old lady, I don't see why
she should be fined," observed Myner.
"What do you mean by that?" I cried.
"I mean this," said he. "The French give a great deal
of credit amongst themselves; they find it pays on the
whole, or the system would hardly be continued; but I
can't see where WE come in; I can't see that it's
honest of us Anglo-Saxons to profit by their easy ways,
and then skip over the Channel or (as you Yankees do)
across the Atlantic."
"But I'm not proposing to skip," I objected.
"Exactly," he replied. "And shouldn't you? There's the
problem. You seem to me to have a lack of sympathy for
the proprietors of cabmen's eating-houses. By your own
account you're not getting on; the longer you stay,
it'll only be the more out of the pocket of the dear
old lady at your lodgings. Now, I'll tell you what
I'll do: if you consent to go, I'll pay your passage to
New York, and your railway fare and expenses to
Muskegon (if I have the name right), where your father
lived, where he must have left friends, and where, no
doubt, you'll find an opening.
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