“Tony!” says she, hard and bitter. “How do I know? He ain’t been near us for a month past.”
“Sends in something of a Saturday, don’t he?” says I.
“Would I be lettin’ the likes of her—that Miss Colliver—come here if he did,” says she, “or workin’ my eyes out like this?”
“I thought Lizzie was in a store?” says I, noddin’ towards the twelve-year-old girl at the nut pickin’ table.
“They always lays off half the bundle girls after Christmas,” says Mrs. Tiscott. “That’s why we don’t see Tony regular every payday any more. He had the nerve to claim most of Lizzie’s envelope.”
Then it was my turn to say “Huh!”
“Why don’t you have him up?” says I.
“I’m a-scared,” says she. “He’s promised to break my head.”
“Think he would?” says I.
“Yes,” says she. “He’s changed for the worse lately. He’d do it, all right, if I took him to court.”