“Thirty cents a pound, ma’am.”
“Well, lemme have three poun’s. An’ a nice piece a boilin’ beef. My girl can cook it tomorra. An’ a bottle a milk for my girl. She dotes on milk. Gonna have a baby. Nurse-lady tol’ her to eat lots a milk. Now, le’s see, we got potatoes.”
Pa came close, carrying a can of sirup in his hands. “Might get this here,” he said. “Might have some hotcakes.”
Ma frowned. “Well—well, yes. Here, we’ll take this here. Now—we got plenty lard.”
Ruthie came near, in her hands two large boxes of Cracker Jack, in her eyes a brooding question, which on a nod or a shake of Ma’s head might become tragedy or joyous excitement. “Ma?” She held up the boxes, jerked them up and down to make them attractive.
“Now you put them back—”
The tragedy began to form in Ruthie’s eyes. Pa said, “They’re on’y a nickel apiece. Them little fellas worked good today.”
“Well—” The excitement began to steal into Ruthie’s eyes. “Awright.”
Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out the door, into the evening.
Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them on and took them off and laid them down. He moved gradually to the liquor shelves, and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him, “Pa,” she said, and motioned with her head toward Uncle John.