"I'm hungry," he said in a thick, unnatural voice.
"I've got your supper all ready, dear," the woman's low voice returned. She tried hard to keep it steady; "and I'll just pour the tea. Are you tired, Ned?"
He did not answer. Staggering towards the table, he began eating greedily, still upon his feet. "To-day's been the devil," he muttered; "I can't eat, I tell you—there's only one thing I want, and I've had too much of that. But I've got to have it."
"You didn't speak to baby, Ned," she said timidly, trying to come closer to him, yet shrinking instinctively; "see how she jumps in my arms—she knows you, Ned."
"I wish she'd never been born," the man said brutally; "it'll only be another hungry mouth—how much have we left in the savings?"
"And she was trying to say 'daddy' to-day—and once I'm sure she did," the mother went on, fearful of his quest and hoping to beguile him thus.
"What's that got to do with it?" he demanded angrily, commanding his words with difficulty. "The strikers had to give in—and we went back to-day. An' the bosses won't take us on again—they've sacked us, damn them, and every man of us has to come home to his hungry kids. How much is left out o' what we've saved?" he repeated, tasting a cup of tea, only to let it fall from his shaking hand so suddenly that it was spilled about the table.
"There's about three hundred, Ned," she said hesitatingly. "We did have nearly five, you know—we've used such a lot of it lately."
"I want some of it," he said gruffly. "I've got to pay into the fund for the men—and anyhow, I want money. Who earned it if it wasn't me?"
"Oh, Ned," she began pleadingly, "please don't—please don't make me, dear. It's all we've got—and it's taken so long to save it; and if times get worse—if you don't get work?"