And now the voices changed. He heard his father draw a deep breath and lock it against his palate, then let it out harshly against the bones of his nose in a long snort of annoyance. He heard the Morris chair creak as his father stood up and he heard sounds from his mother which meant that she was disturbed by his annoyance and that she would see to him, Jay; his uncle and his aunt made quick, small, attendant noises and took no further part in the discussion and his father’s voice, somewhat less unkind than the snort and the way he had gotten from his chair but still annoyed, saying, “No, he hollered for me, I’ll see to him”; and heard his mastering, tired approach. He was afraid, for he was no longer deeply frightened, he was grateful for the evidence of tears.
The room opened full of gold, his father stooped through the door and closed it quietly; came quietly to the crib. His face was kind.
“Wuzza matter?” he asked, teasing gently, his voice at its deepest.
“Daddy,” the child said thinly. He sucked the phlegm from his nose and swallowed it.
His voice raised a little. “Why, what’s the trouble with my little boy,” he said and fumbled and got out his handkerchief. “What’s the trouble! What’s he crine about!” The harsh cloth smelt of tobacco; with his fingertips, his father removed crumbs of tobacco from the child’s damp face.
“Blow,” he said. “You know your mamma don’t like you to swallah that stuff.” He felt the hand strong beneath his head and a sob overtook him as he blew.
“Why, what’s wrong?” his father exclaimed; and now his voice was entirely kind. He lifted the child’s head a little more, knelt and looked carefully into his eyes; the child felt the strength of the other hand, covering his chest, patting gently. He endeavored to make a little more of his sobbing than came out, but the moment had departed.
