“Then you’re dead poor,” the boy was thinking out loud.
“Yes, but when I’m big and can sing in a hall and get a dollar a night—then we won’t be poor. We can travel in steam cars and Pa can have all the painkiller he likes, and Ma can just lay on a sofa and read novels and cry.”
Dan put his hand in his pocket and drew out some money. “Thurley, I want to honest buy some pans—can I—how much?”
“You’re giving me money for something you don’t want!”
“By George, listen to her!” he informed the tired horses nibbling at posts. “I do, too—I want to put ’em away for Mrs. Hawkins’ Christmas present.”
“She said she didn’t need any. Didn’t you hear?”
“But presents ain’t what you need, but what you get.”
“I couldn’t—you’re just being nice.”
“Well, I tell you—I’m manager of the show and I can pay you to sing, can’t I?”