"Mommer, what makes him have that kinder sorry look all the time, I wonder?" she said, when Mrs. Garland followed her in.
"Sorry, what you talkin' about? A pleasanter spoke gempman I never see. Hand me them pants."
"I'll fold'em, mommer.--I don't mean speakin', but the look he's got, just the same when he's laughin' and jokin' and all. It's the look he's got, don't you notice, someway?"
"It's that foot o' his, I reckon. Pains him prob'ly. The mess he's left things.... He'd ought to have a fulldressuit of his own, 'stead o' borrowin' that fat O'Neill's."
"Mommer, if he had one, somebody 'd ask it off him. Like he gave Mister his Sunday cutaway coat.... How'd he hurt his foot, mommer, jever hear him say?"
"Berkler bone, I hear."
They worked in silence for a time.
"I'm right tired to-night. Put 'em here in his clo'es-bag, mommer.... Don't seem it could be just his foot. Torm Hartman's leg's right off to his hip, and he's got a fat look to him. Mr. V.V.'s sorry like he wanted to do something, and something in him knewed all the time he couldn't ever."
"Somep'n in him knewed--jever hear such foolishness! I'll take the broom to this floor. You go along to bed now. Didn't I hear you promise him?"