Italy now, Car’line is, and costs like all get-out. Takes all the money I can scrape together, just about.”
There was a little colour in Selina’s face now. “Italy! Oh, Mr. Talcott!’ You'd have thought she had seen it, from her face. She began to thank him, gravely.
“Now, that’s all right, Mis’ DeJong. I notice your stuff’s bunched kind of extry, and all of a size. Fixin’ to do that way right along?”
“Yes. I thought—they looked prettier that way—of course vegetables aren’t supposed to look pretty, I expect—” she stammered, stopped.
“You fix ’em pretty like that and bring ’em in to me first thing, or send’em. My trade, they like their stuff kind of special. Yessir.”
As she gathered up the reins he stood again in his doorway, cool, remote, his unlighted cigar in his mouth, while hand-trucks rattled past him, barrels and boxes thumped to the sidewalk in front of him, wheels and hoofs and shouts made a great clamour all about him.
“We going home now?” demanded Dirk. “We going home now? I’m hungry.”
“Yes, lamb.” Two dollars in her pocket. All yesterday's grim toil, and all to-day’s, and months of labour behind: those two days. Two dollars in the pocket of her black calico petticoat. “We'll get something to eat when we drive out a ways. Some milk and bread and cheese.”
The sun was very hot. She took the boy’s hat off,
