“Maybe so, but you didn’t earn it. You just grafted it off papa.”
Ritter flushed floridly. “Huh!” he grunted. “You think so, do you? That runt, Midge Willett’s been stuffing you full of lies. Just wait till I give him a piece of my mind—”
“Don’t do it,” laughed Micky. “You haven’t any to spare.”
He skipped up a side street, leaving the stout youth snorting incoherently on the corner. A few houses beyond he turned in at the gate of a small, white-painted cottage, hastened along a gravelled path at the side, and dived into the open cellar door.
When he had shaken down the small furnace, swept up the floor and carted the ashes around to the rear he knocked at the back door and stepped in, closing it behind him.
It was an immaculate kitchen, fairly shining in its scrubbed, polished state of cleanliness. Everything was so spotless, in fact, that the vigorous movements of the broom, wielded by the small, spare woman in a limp calico dress seemed rather unnecessary.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wright,” said Micky, pulling off his cap. “I’ve fixed the furnace and carried out the ashes. I’ll split your kindling this afternoon after school. Is there anything I can do for you downtown?”
She glanced momentarily at him over one shoulder. The vigorous movement of the broom never ceased. “No, thank you, William,” she said briefly.
Still Micky hesitated. He had noticed her reddened eyelids and a curious, unwonted droop to the usually erect shoulders. “I—I thought perhaps you might want something special from the store,” he persisted awkwardly. “To-morrow’s Thanksgiving, and—”
She faced him suddenly, her thin, rheumatic fingers clenched about the broom handle. “Thanksgiving!” she repeated harshly. “What’s that to me? What have I got to be thankful for?” Her lips quivered for an instant and then straightened. “Jim’s going over—going to France. And—and they won’t let him come home to say good-by!”