“I’m here to second that there nomination,” Steve said, harshly. “Bein’s I haint taught in speech-makin’ I fetched help. But I figger the boy and me’ll be able to make out.”
He got down on one knee so his face was on a level with the child’s.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Steve,” said the little one.
“What’s your other name?”
“Hain’t got none.”
Every man, every woman, in the house was straining forward. Here was something not to be expected by any; something fraught with meaning. Michael Moran was of those whose eyes were fixed on the two figures. He half arose to his feet, then sank back, face distorted, fists clenched.
“Who was your ma?” Steve asked, in a voice that chilled.
“Susie Gilders.”
“Where is she?”