Thurley’s eyes brightened. Dreams do come true, if one is patient.
“Yes, I’d take money for singing,” she admitted.
“How much?”
“A cent a song to begin with—if I take well, you can make it two.”
Dan emptied the money into her ragged lap. “It’s about a dollar—and you can sing a hundred songs.”
“At one performance?”
“No, we’re going to South Wales and Pike and give our show.”
“Thurley, come in quick, your ma’s took bad,” called a weak voice from within. “I guess she’ll have to be rubbed.”
“I’ll have to go—thanks, Dan.”
“Good-by, Thurley; I hope she’s not awful sick—to-morrow—”