“I want to know,” said Maria to Mamie, “if you are wearing all your sister's underclothes this winter?”
Mamie whimpered a little as she replied. Mamie had a habitual whimper and a mean little face, with a wisp of flaxen hair tied with a dirty blue ribbon.
“Yes, ma'am,” she replied. “Jessy she growed so she couldn't git into 'em, and mummer—”
The boy, who was very thin, almost to emaciation, and looked consumptive, but who was impishly pert, cut in.
“I had to wear Jessy's shirts,” he said. “Mamie she couldn't wear them 'ere.”
“So you haven't any flannel shirts?” Maria asked of Mamie.
“I'm wearin' mummer's,” said Mamie. “Mummer's they shrunk so she couldn't wear 'em, and Jessy couldn't nuther.”
“What is your mother wearing?” asked Maria.
“Mr. John Dorsey he bought her some new ones,” replied Mamie, and a light of evil intelligence came into the mean little face.
“Who is Mr. John Dorsey?” asked Maria.