The Terrible Ten began it. Eleanor Watson had forgotten to bring either peanuts or taffy to their class, and the Arithmetic lesson flagged in consequence, until finally, in despair, she sent Rafael out to buy some refreshments.
“How’s your father to-night, Pietro?” she asked, while they waited. Pietro Senior had slipped on the ice on his way home from work and sprained his wrist badly.
“Better, I tink,” Pietro reported stolidly, his thoughts all on peanuts to come.
“Dat’s nottings—lit’ wrist splain,” Giuseppi announced. “My fader, he had a hand cut off—so.”
“My fader go to de hospital. Hava big cutting.” Nicolo illustrated a “big cutting” vividly with a dangerous swing of his villainous-looking jack-knife.
“My moder she hava two operations dis year.”
“My sister she have tree.”
Rafael had arrived during the debate, but not even the bag of peanuts he set down before Eleanor could distract attention from the bitter rivalry in misfortune. In a minute Rafael too had caught the trend of it.
“Waita lil minute,” he cried, glowering angrily round the circle. “Looka my hand. Dat’s one. My lil sister she died dis year. My muvver she go to hospital. And my big sister, she work to Cannon’s fer der Christmas trade. She say she rather die, she so tired every night, an’ it get worse an’ worse an’ worse every day till it be Christmas.”
“Dat so,” agreed Pietro solemnly. “My sister she work dar too. Doan get home till ten, leben o’clock.”