"But hasn't Mr. Cassidy a job?"
"He has when he has it—but it's bum work. Slave like a nigger and then laid off for six months, maybe."
"What kind of work is that?"
"'Longshore—he's a 'longshoreman."
"And when he's unemployed you have a hard time, don't you?"
"Hard?" Mrs. Cassidy's voice broke. "What can we do? There's the insurance every week—fifteen cents for my man, ten cents for me, and five cents for Annie. We couldn't let that go; it's buryin'-money, and there ain't a Cassidy isn't going to have as swell a funeral as any in the ward. And then we've got to live. I've found one thing in this world—the harder you work the less you get."
Joe spoke emphatically.
"Mrs. Cassidy, when your husband's out of work, through no fault of his own, he ought to get a weekly allowance to keep you going."
"And who's to give it to him?"
"Who? Do you know what they do in Germany?"