"I don't care whether you're my daughter or not, I'm not goin' to let you stand there and call your own brother a thief. Do you understand? He's your own flesh and blood, and I tell you, Minnie, as my father used to say, 'It's a foul bird that dirties its own nest.'"
"Ssh, ma. Stop yellin' like that. I just heard the door slam. Maybe it's Pete, and if it is, you better not let him see you cryin' like this—he hates it, and if he sees too much of it he'll like as not clear out on us. . . . Fat chance," Minnie added, and her voice trembled, "not so long as he gets somethin' for nothin'. Not that bird!"
It was Pete. He shuffled into the room and fixed his small, red-rimmed eyes upon them. "What's the big idea?" he asked. "You been cryin' again, ma?"
"I been fixin' onions," Mrs. Flynn forced a sudden nervous smile. "Kiss me, dearie, I'm glad you're home so early. Gonna have hamburger for dinner."
Pete bent over and turned his cheek so that his mother could kiss him.
"My, but your face is cold. You shouldn't be goin' out without them newspapers on your chest, Pete. You know that last cold, how it hung on. If I hadn't watched it, maybe you would of come down with pneumonia."
"Disappointed, ma?" He laughed and winked at Minnie. "I swear, Minnie, ma's hankering for a wake."
"Oh, Pete darlin,' what a thing to say to your old ma. You—you big kidder, you." She reached up and pinched him on the cheek.
"Gee, ma, your hands stink of onions. I should say you was fixin' 'em."
Minnie hurried out of the kitchen because she knew just what was coming. She was to be the next victim of Pete's humorous abuse. How he had tormented her when they were
