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 son, nor did the boy attempt a reply—but went about his work—house work—with the same queer stolidity he had exhibited before his father entered. The thing was common to him, the whole proceeding, and made no impression upon him. Nothing made much of an impression on Angus Burke.

The woman on the mattress in the corner stirred, moaned, turned so she could see her husband.

“Did you get them for me, Titus?” she whined. “Where’s my black pills? You give them to me, now; don’t go hidin’ them from me…. Hand ’em over. Can’t you see I’m most dyin’ for the want of them?… If I was to die I’d like to know who’d look after you and keep your house and do your cookin’….” She raised herself on her elbow and stretched out a skinny, bloodless, trembling hand.

“Shet up your caterwaulin’,” replied Titus. “I got ’em, and I’ll hand ’em over as soon as I git around to it. Think a man kin do everythin’ all to once?”

This dialogue, too, was in the ordinary way of things for Angus. He knew his father would tantalize his mother by withholding her drug as long as he derived pleasure from it. It was the common ritual of the occasion and he would have wondered dully at its omission. So would