He noticed that she was wearing the same faded blue calico-dress with a patch on the shoulder. Man though he was, he realised that dress is an important consideration in the lives of women. He was tempted to suspect that this blue calico might be the only dress that Mary owned; but seeing it newly laundered every time, he concluded that she must have at least one other. At any rate, here she was, crisp and fresh-looking; and with the new shining costume, she had put on the long promised “company manner”: high spirits and badinage, precisely like any belle of the world of luxury, who powders and bedecks herself for a ball. She had been grim and complaining in former meetings with this interesting young man; she had frightened him away, apparently; perhaps she could win him back by womanliness and good humour.
She rallied him upon his battered scalp and his creaking back, telling him he looked ten years older—which he was fully prepared to believe. Also she had fun with him for working under a Slovak—another loss of caste, it appeared! This was a joke the Minettis could share in—especially Little Jerry, who liked jokes. He told Mary how Joe Smith had had to pay fifteen dollars for his new job, besides several drinks at O’Callahan’s. Also he told how Mike Sikoria had called Joe his “green mule.” Little Jerry complained about the turn of events, for in the old days Joe had taught him a lot of fine new games—and now he was sore, and would not play them. Also, in the old days he had sung a lot of jolly songs, full of the most fascinating rhymes. There was a song about a “monkey puzzle tree”! Had Mary ever seen that kind of tree? Little Jerry never got tired of trying to imagine what it might look like.
The Dago urchin stood and watched gravely while Mary fed the custard to the baby; and when two or three spoonfuls were held out to him, he opened his mouth wide, and afterwards licked his lips. Gee, that was good stuff!
When the last taste was gone, he stood gazing at Mary’s shining coronet. “Say,” said he, “was your hair always like that?”
Hal and Mary burst into laughter, while Rosa cried “Hush!” She was never sure what this youngster would say next.
“Sure, did ye think I painted it?” asked Mary.
“I didn’t know,” said Little Jerry. “It looks so nice and new.” And he turned to Hal. “Ain’t it?”
“You bet,” said Hal, and added, “Go on and tell her about it. Girls like compliments.”
“Compliments?” echoed Little Jerry. “What’s that?”
“Why,” said Hal, “that’s when you say that her hair is like the sunrise, and her eyes are like twilight, or that she’s a wild rose on a mountainside.”
“Oh,” said the Dago urchin, somewhat doubtfully. “Anyhow,” he added, “she make nice custard!”
XXIV
The time came for Mary to take her departure, and Hal got up, wincing with pain, to escort her home. She regarded him gravely, having not realised before how seriously he was suffering. As they walked along she asked, “Why do ye do such work, when ye don’t have to?”
“But I do have to! I have to earn a living!”
“Ye don’t have to earn it that way! A bright young fellow like you—an American!”
“Well,” said Hal, “I thought it would be interesting to see coal mining.”
“Now ye’ve seen it,” said the girl—“now quit!”
“But it won’t do me any harm to go on for a while!”
“Won’t it? How can ye know? When any day they may carry you out on a plank!”
Her “company manner” was gone; her voice was full of bitterness, as it always was when she spoke of North Valley. “I know what I’m tellin’ ye, Joe Smith. Didn’t I lose two brothers in it—as fine lads as ye’d find anywhere in the world! And many another lad I’ve seen go in laughin’, and come out a corpse—or what is worse, for workin’ people, a cripple. Sometimes I’d like to go and stand at the pit-mouth in the mornin’ and cry to them, ‘Go back, go back! Go down the canyon this day! Starve, if ye have to, beg if ye have to, only find some other work but coal-minin’!’ ”
Her voice had risen to a passion of protest; when she went on a new note came into it—a note of personal terror. “It’s worse now—since you came, Joe! To see ye settin’ out on the life of a miner—you, that are young and strong and different. Oh, go away, Joe, go away while ye can!”
He was astonished at her intensity. “Don’t worry about me, Mary,” he said. “Nothing will happen to me. I’ll go away after a while.”
The path was irregular, and he had been holding her arm as they walked. He felt her trembling, and went on again, quickly, “It’s not I that should go away, Mary. It’s yourself. You hate the place—it’s terrible for you to have to live here. Have you never thought of going away?”
She did not answer at once, and when she did the excitement was gone from her voice; it was flat and dull with despair. “ ’Tis no use to think of me. There’s nothin’ I can do—there’s nothin’ any girl can do when she’s poor. I’ve tried—but ’tis like bein’ up against a stone wall. I can’t even save the money to get on a train with! I’ve tried it—I been savin’ for two years—and how much d’ye think I got, Joe? Seven dollars! Seven dollars in two years! No—ye can’t save money in a place where there’s so many things that wring the heart. Ye may hate them for being cowards—but ye must help when ye see a man
