In the dead man’s hands she placed a crucifix; and, kneeling, with little lapses of memory, she recited the prayer for the dead.
Then, as if moved by some force without herself, with eyes staring, she rose from her knees and hurried to the kitchen. She took down from a shelf a bottle of Scotch whiskey. With fingers that trembled she poured herself out a long drink.
“Now and then I earn a small one,” said Rhyolite Rose.
THE ANSWER
By Harry Stillwell Edwards
The dim lights of the old pawnbroker’s shop flickered violently as the street door opened, letting in a gust of icy wind. The man who came with the wind closed the door with difficulty, approached the low desk, took off his thin coat, shook the sleet from it and laid it on the counter.
“As much as ye can,” he said crisply. “’Tis me last!”
The broker measured the garment with a careless glance and tossed fifty cents on the counter.
“Come wanst more, me friend! ’Tis not enough for the illegant coat.”
Pathos did not appeal often to the old dealer, but this time it did. A vibration in the voice exactly fitted the mystery of something buried deep in the subconsciousness. He questioned the other with a swift glance, hesitated, and by the coin laid another like it. The man nodded.