“I am older,” said Tommy. “I feel years older—old enough, certainly, to do a little work.”
She sat looking at him, dreading what would come next.
“Where are my old clothes?” he asked—“the clothes I used to work in?”
Then she understood.
“Not that!” she cried. “Oh, not that!” and would have come to him, but he waved her back, and she sank again into her chair. For an instant he felt immeasurably older than his mother.
“There’s no use trying to get around it,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I’ve got to go to work, and till something better shows up I’ve got to take father’s place in the mine. I can do the work, and I’m going to begin right away. Where are my clothes?”
She rose as one dazed, went to a closet, and drew out the grimy garments. He shuddered as he looked at them. His mother saw the movement of disgust, and understood it.
“It sha’n’t be!” she cried, and flung the garments back into the closet and shut the door.
But Tommy had already conquered the moment’s feeling.
“Come, mother,” he said, “we’re making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Why shouldn’t I go back to the mine? It’s only for a little while, till I can find something else. I’m sure I can soon find something else. Give me the clothes.”