When she saw that he was gone, Violet fell upon the tumbled, unmade bed and cried with all the vehemence of her unrestrained, shallow nature. For she was sick and weary and hungry. She had given her last dollar to a policeman the night before to keep from arrest. The oldest boy had gone to school without breakfast. The little children were playing in the street–they had begged food at the neighbors’ and she had no heart to stop them. At noon when little Tom came in he found his mother sitting before a number of paper sacks upon the table waiting for him. Then the family ate out of the sacks the cold meal she had bought at the grocery store with John Dexter’s money.
That night Violet shivered out into the cold over her usual route. She was walking through the railroad yards in Magnus when suddenly she came upon a man who dropped stealthily out of a dead engine. He carried something shining and tried to slip it under his coat when he saw her. She knew he was stealing brass, but she did not care; she called as they passed through the light from an arc lamp:
“Hello, sweetheart–where you going?”
The man looked up ashamed, and she turned a brazen, painted face at him and tried to smile without opening her lips.
Their eyes met, and the man caught her by the arm and cried:
374“God, Violet–is this you–have you–” She cut him off with:
“Henry Fenn–why–Henry–”
The brass fell at his feet. He did not pick it up. They stood between the box cars in speechless astonishment. It was the man who found voice.
“Violet–Violet,” he cried. “This is hell. I’m a thief and you–”
“Say it–say it–don’t spare me,” she cried. “That’s what I am, Henry. It’s all right about me, but how about you, how about you, Henry? This is no place for you! Why, you,” she exclaimed–“why, you are–”