"Uh-huh, some of the time he works—when there ain't no strikes ner nothin'."
The Interpreter, with his eyes on that dark cloud that hung above the forest of grim stacks, appeared to attach rather more importance to Bobby's reply than the lad's simple words would justify.
Then, looking gravely at Sam Whaley's son, he said, "And you will work in the Mill, too, I suppose, when you grow up?"
"I dunno," returned the boy. "I ain't much stuck on work. An' dad, he says it don't git yer nothin', nohow."
"I see," mused the Interpreter, and he seemed to see much more than lay on the surface of the child's characteristic expression.
The little girl was still gazing wistfully at the faraway line of hills.
As if struck by a sudden thought, the Interpreter asked, "Your father is working now, though, isn't he?"
"Uh-huh, just now he is."
"I suppose then you are not hungry."
At this wee Maggie turned quickly from contemplating the distant horizon to consider the possible meaning in the man's remark.