nation, she went on into the kitchen where she found her mother creaming dried-beef, boiling potatoes, chopping up a bowl of greens. Mrs. Colman was about sixty-five years old. She had led a hard life and her body had exacted the penalty. Her back was bent, her fingers knotted at the joints. Her face, had it attained a kind of Buddhistic calm, might have been called handsome, for her features were even, her blue eyes kind, under her soft white hair, parted in the centre and smoothed in two curves over her brow, but there were lines of care around these eyes and constant worry had sunk them low in their sockets.
Mother, Lennie began, father's been drinking again.
I know he has. Mrs. Colman was cutting bread.
Where did he get the money?
He got it charged.
I thought we'd told everybody. I thought that was settled. Lennie was breathless, indignant.
There's a new saloon on Main Street where they didn't know. There'll be ten dollars or so to pay. You know he always treats everybody.
Lennie moaned. Well, she said, I can do without a new hat this fall.
Mrs. Colman sighed. He's your father, Lennie. You must remember that. . . . Mrs. Colman wiped her perspiring face with her apron. He's had bad luck. He hasn't been able to get work for so long.
