Norah's tongue was ready with the complaint all
tongues made in 1878--hard times; and she faced me now with hands on
her hips and a generally belligerent expression: "An' shure, ma'am, you
know yourself it's only a dollar a day he's been earnin' this many a
day, an' thankful enough to get that, wid Mike overhead wearin' his
tongue out wid askin' for work here an' there an' everywhere. An'
how'll we live on that, an' the rint due reg'lar, an' the agent poppin'
in his ugly face an' off wid the bit o' money, no matter how bare the
dish is? Bad cess to him! but I'd like to have him hungered once an'
know how it feels. If I hadn't the washin' we'd be on the street this
day."
"What do you live on, Norah?"
"Is it 'live'? Thin I could hardly say. It's mate an' petatys an' tea,
an' Pat will have his glass. He's sober enough--not like Mike, that's
off on his sprees every month; but now we don't be gettin' the same as
we used. Pat says there's that cravin' in him that only the whiskey 'll
stop. It's tin dollars a month for the rooms, an' that's two an' a half
a week steady; an' there's only seven an' a half left for the five
mouths that must be fed, an' the fire an' all, for I can't get more'n
the four dollars for me washin'.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305