At the reiteration of those words Hughs spoke.
“Let the boy alone! You'll be nagging at the baby next!”
Hoarse and grating, like sounds issuing from a damp vault, was this first speech.
The seamstress's eyes brimmed over.
“I won't get the chance,” she stammered out. “He's gone!”
Hughs' teeth gleamed like those of a dog at bay.
“Who's taken him? You let me know the name.”
Tears rolled down the seamstress's cheeks; she could not answer. Her little son's thin voice rose instead:
“Baby's dead. We buried him in the ground. I saw it. Mr. Creed came in the cab with me.”
White flecks appeared suddenly at the corners of Hughs' lips. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and once more, giraffe-like, the little family marched on....