"The thirteen," she said determinedly. "This is pay day. Come on!—come on!—come on!" she ordered, going up to him threateningly.
With a grimace, he thrust his hand in his trousers' pocket and bringing out a small roll of bills, handed it to his wife. She counted the money carefully, and then stuffed it inside her dress. He watched her, a comic expression of resignation on his face.
"Don't I get any?" he grumbled.
"Yes," she answered quickly, "you get carfare and cigar money—twenty cents a day and you get it each day—"
Saying this, she turned her back and fastening on her apron, made a move towards the kitchen. Jimmie, with a gesture of disgust, threw his lunch box on the table and dropped into a chair.
"Can't I even have lunch money" he growled.
Fanny turned on him like a tigress. For some time he had been getting on her nerves and to-day she was in just the humor to let out what she felt. Angrily she exclaimed:
"Won't you ever get it into your head that I'm running this flat on eighteen dollars a week—thirteen from you and five from Virginia? Lunch money! You're lucky even to get lunch!"
He made no reply, but lapsed into a sulky silence. Presently, with a wry face, he growled:
"I'm getting tired of nothing but dry sandwiches and dill pickles."