Short Stories
Even the rent went up, though the house had fallen from bad to
worse disrepair.
He had grown taller; but with his increased height he
seemed leaner than ever. Also, he was more nervous. With the
nervousness increased his peevishness and irritability. The chil-
dren had learned by many bitter lessons to fight shy of him. His
mother respected him for his earning power, but somehow her
respect was tinctured with fear.
There was no joyousness in life for him. The procession of
the days he never saw. The nights he slept away in twitching un-
consciousness. The rest of the time he worked, and his con-
sciousness was machine consciousness. Outside this his mind
was a blank. He had no ideals, and but one illusion; namely, that
he drank excellent coffee. He was a work-beast. He had no men-
tal life whatever; yet deep down in the crypts of his mind, un-
known to him, were being weighed and sifted every hour of his
toil, every movement of his hands, every twitch of his muscles,
and preparations were making for a future course of action that
would amaze him and all his little world.
It was in the late spring that he came home from work one
night aware of unusual tiredness. There was a keen expectancy
in the air as he sat down to the table, but he did not notice. He
went through the meal in moody silence, mechanically eating
what was before him. The children um'd and ah'd and made
smacking noises with their mouths. But he was deaf to them.
"D'ye know what you're eatin'?" his mother demanded at
last, desperately.
He looked vacantly at the dish before him, and vacantly at
her.
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