"What's the fare?"
"Six dollars and sixty-five cents." This was stated with great
exactness. It was the amount of this appalling sum that had, no doubt,
crushed out her last ray of hope.
"Did you sell any whiskey?"
"Yes, I tol' the Judge so." Still no break in her voice. It was only
another statement.
"Oh! you kept a saloon?"
"No."
"How did you sell it, then?"
"Jest out of a kag--in a cup."
"Had you ever sold any before?"
"No."
"Why did you sell it, then?"
She had been looking into my face all this time, one thin, begrimed
hand--the one with the ring on it--tight around the steel bar of the
gate that divided us. With the question, her eyes dropped until they
seemed to rest on this hand. The answer came slowly:
"The baby come, and the store wouldn't chalk nothin' for us no more."
Then she added, quickly, as if in defence of the humiliating position,
"Our corn-crib was sot afire last fall and we got behind."
For a brief instant she leaned heavily against the bars as if for
support, then her eyes sought her child.
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