Still clutching the dish, Tom was dragged into that dark little room. He seemed almost in a trance. The hand which had been raised in conspiracy and treason pushed him roughly onto the berth.
“So you turned up like a bad penny, huh?” whispered his brother, fiercely.
“I—I wrote you—a letter—after mother died,” Tom said simply. “I don’t know if you got it.”
“Shut up!” hissed his brother. “Don’t talk so loud! You want to get me in trouble? How’d you know about this?”
His voice was gruff and cold and seemed the more so for his frightened whisper.
“She died of pneumonia,” said Tom impassively. “I was——”
“Gimme that plate!” his brother interrupted.
But this roused Tom. He seemed to feel that his possession of the plate was a badge of innocence.
“I got to keep it,” he said; “it’s——”
“Shh!” his brother interrupted. “Somebody’s coming; don’t move and keep your mouth shut! It’s the second shift of stokers!”