bitterness and hate that carried his voice, high and passionate, across all the sleeping world of night and rustling autumn.
“What have you been doing to yourself, you little fool?” he began, looking at the boy’s starved ribs. “You look like a scarecrow.”
“I’m all right,” said Eugene. “I wasn’t eating for a while. But I didn’t write them,” he added proudly. “They thought I couldn’t hold out by myself. But I did. I didn’t ask for help. And I came home with my own money. See?” He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out his soiled roll of banknotes, boastfully displaying it.
“Who wants to see your lousy little money?” Ben yelled furiously. “Fool. You come back, looking like a dead man, as if you’d done something to be proud of. What’ve you done? What’ve you done except make a monkey of yourself?”
“I’ve paid my own way,” Eugene cried resentfully, stung and wounded. “That’s what I’ve done.”
“Ah-h,” said Ben, with an ugly sneer, “you little fool! That’s what they’ve been after! Do you think you’ve put anything over on them? Do you? Do you think they give a damn whether you die or not, as long as you save them expense? What are you bragging about? Don’t brag until you’ve got something out of them.”
Propped on his arm, he smoked deeply, in bitter silence, for a moment. Then more quietly, he continued.
“No,’Gene. Get it out of them any way you can. Make them give it to you. Beg it, take it, steal it—only get it somehow. If you don’t, they’ll let it rot. Get it, and get away from them. Go away and don’t come back. To hell with them!” he yelled.
Eliza, who had come softly upstairs to put out the lights, and had been standing for a moment outside the door, rapped gently and entered. Clothed in a tattered old sweater and indefinable under— lappings, she stood for a moment with folded hands, peering in on them with a white troubled face.
“Children,” she said, pursing her lips reproachfully, and shaking her head, “it’s time every one was in bed. You’re keeping the whole house awake with your talk.”
