“I remember Twombley,” Larry said. “Dad used to get a lot of fun out of him in the old days. I haven’t been on the Point since I was a boy.”
“It’s a good thing you never troubled the Point, Rivers. They’ll be more stirred by you now.”
“Maybe they’ll kick me out.”
“Never fear!” Maclin reassured him. “Not if you show good money and play up to your old dad. He had everyone eating out of his hand, all right.”
So Larry, none too sure of himself, but more cheerful than he had been, set forth.
Now there is one thing about the poor, wherever you find them––they live out of doors when the weather permits. Given sunshine and soft air, they promptly turn their backs on the sordid dens they call home and take to the open. The day that Larry went to the Point was warm and lovely, and all the Pointers, or nearly all of them, were in evidence.
Jan-an was sweeping the steps of Peneluna’s doorway, sweeping them viciously, sending the dust flying. She was working off her state of mind produced by the recent funeral of old Philander. She was spiritually inarticulate, but her gropings were expressed in service to them she loved and in violence to them she hated. As she swept she was cleaning for Peneluna, and at the same time, sweeping to the winds of heaven the memory of the dreadful minister who had said such fearsome things about the dead who couldn’t talk back. The man had made Mary-Clare cry as she sat holding Peneluna’s hard, cold hand. Jan-an knew how hard and cold it was, for she had held the other in decent sympathy.
Among the tin cans and ash heaps the children of the 94 Point were playing. One inspired girl had decked a mound of wreckage and garbage with some glittering goldenrod and was calling her mates to come and see the “heaven” she had made.
Larry laughed at this and muttered: “Made it in hell, eh, kid?”
The child scowled at him.