wasn't worth much; it kept declining in value, he got cheaper and cheaper, and finally—just naturally petered out.
"Then, when he was slouchy in morals and mind and character, he got slouchy in person; his habits weren't bad, perhaps; he was no drunkard or anything like that, but just—oh, sloppy, every way. And his wife, his little wife—she was a fine, pretty girl, McCray, when he married her—she, of course, had to pay, too, along with him; he dragged her down. She was patient and kind and always hopeful, but they were poor, and under the stress of their necessities he would get peevish and cross, and sometimes when, say, a Saturday night would come and there wasn't anything in the house to eat—well, he'd look at the children and get mad—mad at himself, primarily, though he didn't say so or admit it even to himself—and he'd take it out in nasty, mean ways with her and the children. Finally, she gave up; she didn't know why, she never knew what had happened, or, if she did, she never even hinted it—and the whole family was just going down to hell and the devil. There wasn't any outward tragedy to make it striking or dramatic or even interesting.
