CHAPTER XII
It proved altogether easier for Martha, now Francie was at home again.
"You see, I can tend her an' sandwich in some work besides," Mrs.Slawson explained cheerfully. "An' Ma's a whizz at settin' by bedsideshelpin' patients get up their appetites. Says she, 'Now drink this niceglass o' egg-nog, Francie, me child,' she says. 'An' if you'll drink it,I'll take one just like it meself.' An' true for you, she does. Thegoodness o' Ma is astonishin'."
Then one day Sam Slawson came home with a tragic face.
"I've lost my job, Martha!" he stated baldly.
For a moment his wife stood silent under the blow, and all it entailed.Then, with an almost imperceptible squaring of her broad shoulders, shebraced herself to meet it, as she herself would say, like a soldier."Well, it's kinder hard on _you_, lad," she answered. "But there's nouse grievin'. If it had to happen, it couldn't 'a' happened at a bettertime, for you bein' home, an' able to look after Francie, will give me achance to go out reg'lar to my work again. An' before you know it,Francie, she'll be running about as good as new, an' you'll haveanother job, an' we'll be on the top o' the wave. Here's Miss Claire,bless her, payin' me seven dollars a week board, which she doesn't eatno more than a bird, an' Sammy singin' in the surplus choir, an' gettin'fifty cents a week for it, an' extra for funer'ls (it'd take your timeto hear'm lamentin' because business ain't brisker in the funer'lline!). Why, _we_ ain't no call to be discouraged. You can take it fromme, Sammy Slawson, when things seem to be kinder shuttin' down on ye,an' gettin' black-like, same's they lately been doin' on us, that ain'tno time to be chicken-hearted. Anybody could fall down when they'reknocked. That's too dead-easy! No, what we want, is buck up an' havesome style about us. When things shuts down an' gets dark at themovin'-picture show, then it's time to sit up an' take notice. Thatmeans somethin's doin'--you're goin' to be showed somethin' interestin'.Well, it's the same with us. But if you lose your sand at the firstgo-off, an' sag down an' hide your face in your hands, well, you'll missthe show. You won't see a bloomin' thing."
And Martha, sleeves rolled up, enveloped in an enormous blue-checkedapron, returned to her assault on the dough she was kneading, withredoubled zeal.
"Bread, mother?" asked Sam dully, letting himself down wearily into achair by the drop-table, staring indifferently before him out of blankeyes.
"Shoor! An' I put some currants in, to please the little fella. I givein, my bread is what you might call a holy terror. Ain't it the cautionhow I can't ever make bread fit to be eat, the best I can do? An' yet, Ican't quit tryin'. You see, home-made bread, _if it's good_, is cheaperthan store. Perhaps some day I'll be hittin' it right, so's when you askme for bread I won't be givin' you a stone."
She broke off abruptly, gazed a moment at her husband, then stepped tohis side, and put a floury hand on his shoulder. "Say, Sam, what youlookin' so for? You ain't lost your sand just because they fired you?What's come to you, lad? Tell Martha."
For a second there was no sound in the room, then the man looked up,gulped, choked down a mighty sob, and laid his head against her breast.
"Martha--there's somethin' wrong with my lung. That's why they thrown medown. They had their doctor from the main office examine me--they'dnoticed me coughin'--and he said I'd a spot on my lung or--something. Ishouldn't stay here in the city, he said. I must go up in the mountains,away from this, where there's the good air and a chance for my lung toheal, otherwise--"
Martha stroked the damp hair away from his temples with her powderyhand.
"Well, well!" she said reflectively. "Now, what do you think o' that!"
"O, Martha--I can't stand it! You an' the children! It's more than I canbear!"
Mrs. Slawson gave the head against her breast a final pat that, toanother than her husband, might have felt like a blow.
"More'n you can bear? Don't flatter yourself, Sammy my lad! Not by nomeans it ain't. I wouldn't like to have to stand up to all I couldackchelly bear. It's God, not us, knows how much we can stand, an' whenHe gets in the good licks on us, He always leaves us with a littlestren'th to spare--to last over for the next time. Now, I'm not a bitbroke down by what you've told me. I s'pose you thought you'd have mesobbin' on your shoulder--to give you a chanct to play up, an' do thestrong-husband act, comfortin' his little tremblin' wife. Well, my lad,if you ain't got on to it by now, that I'm no little, tremblin' wife,you never will. Those kind has nerves. I only got nerve. That's whereI'm _singular_, see? A joke, Sammy! I made it up myself. Out of my ownhead, just now. But to go back to what I was sayin'--why should I sob onyour shoulder? There ain't no reason for't. In the first place, even ifyou _have_ got a spot on your lung, what's a spot! It ain't the wholelung! An' _one_ lung ain't _both_ lungs, an' there you are! As I make itout, even grantin' the worst, you're a lung-an'-then-some to the good,so where's the use gettin' blue? There's always a way out, somehow. Ifwe can't do one way, we'll do another. Now you just cheer up, an' don'tlet Ma an' the childern see you kinder got a knock-outer in the solarplexus, like Jeffries, an' before you know it, there'll be a suddentturn, an' we'll be atop o' our worries, 'stead o' their bein' atop o'us. See! Say, just you cast your eye on them loaves! Ain't they grand?Appearances may be deceitful, but if I do say it as shouldn't, my breadcertainly looks elegant this time. Now, Sammy, get busy like a goodfella! Go in an' amuse Francie. The poor child is perishin' forsomethin' to distrack her. What with Cora an' Sammy at school, an' MissClaire havin' the Shermans so bewitched, they keep her there all day,an' lucky for us if they leave her come home nights at all, the house istoo still for a sick person. Give Francie a drink o' Hygee water to coolher lips, an' tell her a yarn-like. An', Sammy, I wisht you'd be good toyourself, an' have a shave. Them prickles o' beard reminds me o' theinsides o' Mrs. Sherman's big music-box. I wonder what tune you'd playif I run your chin in. Go on, now, an' attend to Francie, like I toldyou to. She needs to have her mind took off'n herself."
When he was gone, Martha set her loaves aside under cover to rise, neverpausing a moment to take breath, before giving the kitchen a"scrub-down" that left no corner or cranny harboring a particle of dust.It was twilight when she finished, and "time to turn to an' get thedinner."
Cora and Sammy had long since returned from school. Sammy had gone outagain to play, and had just come back to find his mother taking herbread-pans from the oven. She regarded them with doleful gaze.
"I fairly broke my own record this time for a bum bread-maker!" shemuttered beneath her breath. "This batch is the worst yet."
"Say--mother!" said Sammy.
"Well?"
"Say, mother, may I have a slice of bread? I'm awfully hungry."
"Shoor you may! This here's just fresh from the oven, an' it hascurrants in it."
"Say, mother, a feller I play with, Joe Eagan, _his_ mother's handsain't clean. Would you think he'd like to eat the bread she makes?"
"Can she make _good_ bread?"
"I dunno. She give me a piece oncet, but I couldn't eat it, 'count o'seein' her fingers. I'm glad your hands are so clean, mother. Say, thisbread tastes awful good!"
Martha chuckled. "Well, I'm glad you like it. It might be worse, if I dosay it! Only," she added to herself, "it'd have a tough time managin'it."
"Say, mother, may I have another slice with butter on, an' sugarsprinkled on top, like this is, to give it to Joe Eagan? He'sdownstairs. I want to show him how _my_ mother can make the boss bread!"
"Certainly," said Martha heartily. "By all means, give Joe Eagan aslice. I like to see you thoughtful an' generous, my son. Willin' toshare your good things with your friends," and as Sammy bounded out,clutching his treasures, she winked solemnly across at her husband, whohad just re-entered.
"Now do you know what'll happen?" she inquired. "Sammy'll always havethe notion I make the best bread ever. An' when he grows up an' marries,if his wife is a chef-cook straight out of the toniest kitchen in town,at fifty dollars a month, he'll tell her she ain't a patch on me. An'he'll say to her: 'Susan, or whatever-
her-name-is, them biscuits is allright in their way, but I wisht I had a mouthful o' bread like motherused to make.' An' the poor creature'll wear the life out o' her, tryin'to please'm, an' reach my top-notch, an' never succeed, an' all thetime--Say, Sammy, gather up the rest o' the stuff, like a good fella,an' shove it onto the dumb-waiter, so's it can go down with thesw--There's the whistle now! That's him callin' for the garbage."
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