Mrs. Garcia made a rush at her son with the evident intention of administering corporal punishment on the spot. But with a loud, derisive shout, he eluded her and dashed through the doorway. Safe on the stairs, he cried defiantly:
“I ain’t done it, and no one can prove it.”
“That’s the way they always act,” said Mrs. Garcia despondently, pushing up her bang so that she could the better see her new guest. “It’s no picnic having no husband and having to slave for everybody.”
“Grandma slaves, too,” said the rebel on the stairway; “she slaves more’n you do, and Uncle Gam slaves the most.”
Further revelations were stopped by another ring at the bell. Visitors were evidently rare, for everybody but Mariposa flew to the hall and precipitated themselves down the stairs. In the general interest the recent battle was forgotten, the rebel earning his pardon by getting to the door before any one else. The new-comer was Mariposa’s expressman. She had already seen through her window the uncovered cart with her few belongings glistening with rain.
The driver, a grimy youth in a steaming blouse, was standing in the doorway with the wet receipt flapping in his hand.
“It’s your things,” yelled the boys.
“Tell him to bring them up,” said Mariposa, who was now at the stair-head herself.
The man stepped into the hall and looked up at her. He had a singularly red and impudent face.
“Not till I get my two dollars and a half,” he said.