"So your father was one of the strikers?" said Patty, her lips
thinning. "Why did he strike?"
"I don't know; 'cause the others struck, I guess. They was an English
lobster workin' without bein' in my old man's union. Mebbe that was
it. Anyhow, we don't care; the old man's got another job."
With this the boys climbed the fence and moved across the field,
mutely rebellious, like puppies baffled in their pursuit of a cat.
Patty's eyes, moist and shining of a sudden, roved over the grim
ruins. Sparrows were chattering on the window ledges and swallows were
diving into the black mouths of the towering chimneys. The memory of
her father swelled her heart near to bursting. She could see his
iron-grey head bending over the desk; she could hear his rough but
kindly voice. Why, whenever he entered the house his splendid physical
energy seemed to radiate health and cheerfulness, infecting all those
about him. She could see the men, too, moving in the glow of ruddy
light; she could see again the brilliant sparks flying from under the
thundering trip-hammers, the cyclopean eyes that glared up at heaven
at night, the great rumbling drays, the freight moving to and from the
spur.
Pages:
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380