“I’m not much of a joker, am I?”
“No. That you’re not. But tell me, man.”
With a quiver in the usually cheerful voice, Mrs. Bump wiped the suds from her arms and went to her husband. Laying her hand kindly upon his shoulder she demanded, as was her right, to know the facts of the disaster that had befallen them.
“’Twon’t take long to tell, woman. The company’s cuttin’ down expenses and I was one of the expenses lopped off. That’s all.”
“Is that all—all, William Bump?”
The question was sternly put and the man cowered before it.
“It’s the truth, any way. No matter how it happened, here I am and no work.” With that he dropped his arms upon the window sill and his face upon his arms, and lapsed into a sullen silence.
Mrs. Bump caught her breath, whisked away a tear that had crept into her eye, and returned to her tub. Mary Jane ceased staring at her parents, tipped the baby’s home-made go-cart on end, rolled him into it, righted the awkward vehicle, threw its leather strap over her shoulders, called to the children: “Come!” and hopped away upon her crutches.
Though she paused, for just one second, beside her father and imprinted a hasty kiss upon the back of his bent head. A kiss so light it seemed he could scarcely have felt it, though it was quite sufficient to thrill the man’s soul with an added sense of regret and degradation.
“We’re off to the park, mother, and I’ve taken a loaf with me!” she called backward, as she clicked out of sight.