Placing the unfinished basket
on a low table that held his tools and the material for his work within
reach of his hand, he threw aside the light shawl. "See!" he said.
For a moment the children gazed, breathlessly, at those shrunken and
twisted limbs that resembled the limbs of a strong man no more than the
empty, flapping sleeves of a scarecrow resemble the arms of a living
human body.
"They are legs all right," said the Interpreter, still smiling, "but
they're not much good, are they? Do you think you could beat me in a
race?"
"Gee!" exclaimed the boy.
Two bright tears rolled down the thin, dirty cheeks of the little
girl's tired face, and she turned to look away over the dirty Flats,
the smoke-grimed mills, and the golden fields of grain in the sunshiny
valley, to something that she seemed to see in the far distant sky.
With a quick movement the Interpreter again hid his useless limbs.
"And now don't you think you might tell me about yourselves? What is
your name, my boy?"
"I'm Bobby Whaley," answered the lad. "She's my sister, Maggie."
"Oh, yes," said the Interpreter. "Your father is Sam Whaley. He works
in the Mill."
"Uh-huh, some of the time he works--when there ain't no strikes ner
nothin'."
The Interpreter, with his eyes on that dark cloud that hung above the
forest of grim stacks, appeared to attach rather more importance to
Bobby's reply than the lad's simple words would justify.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25