eying Bub with chagrin and respect. “I give in; you’re ahead of me.”
“Now we are improving and peeling potatoes don’t look so black, eh?” cried Bub, kindly and encouraging again.
“You’ll admit there isn’t much of a future in that kind of work,” said Stanley, smiling sadly.
“But when a man is down and out and has no money, nor grub, there’s a supper and other suppers in it,” reminded Bub. “Now, if you’re keen to git ahead and are really ambitious, think I can fix it so you can git some washings to do outside of hours. The men pay twenty-five cents per wash. Ten of ’em a week would nearly double your income.”
“Income!” sneered Stanley; then repentant, “Bub, you’re a good fellow. I’ll tackle the potatoes, but we’ll leave the washings for the time being.”
At this juncture a bell rang down below and Bub made a leap for the door. “Supper!” he cried, gaining the stairs in another bound.
“Won’t there be enough?” asked Stanley, keeping up with him only by something of an exertion.
Bub’s boyish laughter rang out clear and full, even rising above the warning of the bell
