Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/694

 Frankie noticed with childish terror the extreme alarm with which his mother looked at his father.

"You're always doing it," he said with a whimper. "How many more times will mother have to tell you about it before you take any notice?"

"It's all right, old chap," said Owen, drawing the child nearer to him and kissing the curly head. "Listen, and see if you can guess what I've got for you under my coat."

"A kitten!" cried the boy, taking it out of its hiding place. "All black, and I believe it's half a Persian. Just the very thing I wanted."

While Frankie amused himself playing with the kitten, which had been provided with another saucer of bread and milk, Owen went into the bedroom to put on the dry clothes

After the child was in bed, Owen sat alone by the table in the draughty sitting-room, thinking.

Although there was a bright fire, the room was very cold, being so close to the roof. The wind roared loudly round the gables, shaking the house in a way that threatened every moment to hurl it to the ground.

Staring abstractedly at the lamp, he thought of the future.

A few years ago the future had seemed a region of wonderful and mysterious possibilities of good, but to-night the thought brought no such illusions, for he knew that the story of the future was to be much the same as the story of the past. He would continue to work, and they would all three have to go without most of the necessaries of life. When there was no work they would starve.

For himself he did not care much, because he knew that, at the best—or worst—it would be only a very few years. Even if he were able to have proper food and clothing, and