Bowser opened
the door. His eyes looked as if he had not slept for a week.
"What's the matter--anybody sick?"
"No--dead!" and he burst into tears.
"Not Muffles!"
"No--the Missus."
"When?"
"Last night. De boss is inside, all broke up."
I tiptoed across the hall and into the bar-room. He was sitting by a
table, his head in his hands, his back toward me.
"Muffles, this is terrible! How did it happen?"
He straightened up and held out his hand, guiding me to a seat beside
him. For some minutes he did not speak. Then he said, slowly, ignoring
my question, the tears streaming down his cheeks:
"Dis ends me. I ain't no good widout de Missus. You thought maybe when
ye were 'round that I was a runnin' things; you thought maybe it was me
that was lookin' after de kids and keepin' 'em clean; you thought maybe
when I got pinched and they come near jugging me that some of me pals
got me clear--you don't know nothin' 'bout it. De Missus did that, like
she done everything."
He stopped as if to get his breath, and put his head in his hands
again--rocking himself to and fro like a man in great physical pain.
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