Short Stories
tooth washing.
"You might wash yourself wunst a day without bein' told,"
his mother complained.
She was holding a broken lid on the pot as she poured two
cups of coffee. He made no remark, for this was a standing quar-
rel between them, and the one thing upon which his mother was
hard as adamant. "Wunst" a day it was compulsory that he
should wash his face. He dried himself on a greasy towel, damp
and dirty and ragged, that left his face covered with shreds of
lint.
"I wish we didn't live so far away," she said, as he sat down.
"I try to do the best I can. You know that. But a dollar on the rent
is such a savin', an' we've more room here. You know that."
He scarcely followed her. He had heard it all before, many
times. The range of her thought was limited, and she was ever
harking back to the hardship worked upon them by living so far
from the mills.
"A dollar means more grub," he remarked sententiously. "I'd
sooner do the walkin' an' git the grub."
He ate hurriedly, half chewing the bread and washing the
unmasticated chunks down with coffee. The hot and muddy liq-
uid went by the name of coffee. Johnny thought it was coffee—
and excellent coffee. That was one of the few of life's illusions
that remained to him. He had never drunk real coffee in his life.
In addition to the bread, there was a small piece of cold pork.
His mother refilled his cup with coffee. As he was finishing the
bread, he began to watch if more was forthcoming. She intercept-
ed his questioning glance.
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