"For the strong and the cruel," said Susan.
"And this feller Jesus—he set round the saloons and such places—publicans, they called 'em"—gasp—gasp—gasp—"And he says to all the poor ignorant slaves and such cattle, he says, 'You're all brothers. Love one another'"—gasp—gasp—gasp—" 'Love one another,' he says, 'and learn to help each other and stand up for each other,' he says, 'and hate war and fightin' and money grabbin'——'"gasp—gasp—gasp—"'Peace on earth,' he says, 'Know the truth, and the truth shall make you free'—and he saw there'd be a time"—the old man raised himself on one elbow—"Yes, by God—there will be!—a time when men'll learn not to be beasts and'll be men—men, little gal!"
"Men," echoed Susan, her eyes shining, her bosom heaving.
"It ain't sense and it ain't right that everything should be for the few—for them with brains—and that the rest—the millions—should be tramped down just because they ain't so cruel or so 'cute'—they and their children tramped down in the dirt. And that feller Jesus saw it."
"Yes—yes," cried Susan. "He saw it."
"I'll tell you what he was," said old Tom in a hoarse whisper. "He wasn't no god. He was bigger'n that—bigger'n that, little gal! He was the first man that ever lived. He said, 'Give the weak a chance so as they kin git strong.' He says——"
The dying man fell back exhausted. His eyes rolled wildly, closed; his mouth twitched, fell wide open; there came from his throat a sound Susan had never heard before, but she knew what it was, what it meant.
Etta and Ashbel were overwhelmed afresh by the disgrace of having their parents buried in Potter's Field—for the insurance money went for debts. They did not understand when Susan said, "I think your father'd have liked to feel that he was going to be buried there—because then he'll be with—with his Friend. You know, He was buried in Potter's Field." However, their grief was shortlived; there is no time in the lives of working people for such luxuries as grief—no more time than there is at sea when all are toiling to keep afloat the storm-racked sinking ship and one sailor is swept overboard. In comfortable lives a bereavement is a contrast; in the lives of the wretched it is but one more in the assailing army of woes.
Etta took a job at the box factory at three dollars a week; she and Susan and Ashbel moved into two small rooms in a flat in a tenement opposite the factory—a cheaper and therefore lower house than the one that had burned. They bought on the installment plan nine dollars' worth of furniture—the scant minimum of necessities. They calculated that, by careful saving, they could pay off the debt in a year or so—unless one or the other fell ill or lost work. "That means," said Etta, eyeing their flimsy and all but downright worthless purchases, "that means we'll still be paying when this furniture'll be gone to pieces and fit only for kindling."
"It's the best we can do," replied Susan. "Maybe one of us'll get a better job."