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“Yes.”

“So does my mother. You find it pretty hard to get a livin’, don’t
yer, these times?”

“My God, yes! God only knows what I’ll do now my poor boy’s gone.
I generally get up at half-past five to scrub out some offices, and
when that’s done I’ve got to start my day’s work, washing. And then
I find it hard to make both ends meet.”

“So does my mother. I suppose you took on bad when yer husband was
brought home?”

“Ah, my God! Yes. I’ll never forget it till my dying day. My poor
husband had been out of work for weeks, and he only got the job two
days before he died. I suppose it gave your mother a great shock?”

“My oath! One of the fellows that carried father home said: ‘Yer
husband’s dead, mum,’ he says; ‘he dropped off all of a suddint,’
and mother said, ‘My God! my God!’ just like that, and went off.”

“Poor soul! poor soul! And–now my Arvie’s gone. Whatever will me
and the children do? Whatever will I do? Whatever will I do? My
God! I wish I was under the turf.”

“Cheer up, mum!” said Bill. “It’s no use frettin’ over what’s done.”

He wiped some tobacco-juice off his lips with the back of his hand,
and regarded the stains reflectively for a minute or so. Then he
looked at Arvie again.

“You should ha’ tried cod liver oil,” said Bill.

“No. He needed rest and plenty of good food.”

“He wasn’t very strong.”

“No, he was not, poor boy.”

“I thought he wasn’t. They treated him bad at Grinder Brothers: they
didn’t give him a show to learn nothing; kept him at the same work all
the time, and he didn’t have cheek enough to arsk the boss for a rise,
lest he’d be sacked. He couldn’t fight, an’ the boys used to tease
him; they’d wait outside the shop to have a lark with Arvie. I’d like
to see ’em do it to me. He couldn’t fight; but then, of course, he
wasn’t strong. They don’t bother me while I’m strong enough to heave
a rock; but then, of course, it wasn’t Arvie’s fault. I s’pose he had
pluck enough, if he hadn’t the strength.” And Bill regarded the
corpse with a fatherly and lenient eye.

“My God!” she cried, “if I’d known this, I’d sooner have starved than
have my poor boy’s life tormented out of him in such a place. He
never complained. My poor, brave-hearted child! He never
complained! Poor little Arvie! Poor little Arvie!”

“He never told yer?”

“No–never a word.”

“My oath! You don’t say so! P’raps he didn’t want to let you know he
couldn’t hold his own; but that wasn’t his fault, I s’pose. Y’see, he
wasn’t strong.”

An old print hanging over the bed attracted his attention, and he
regarded it with critical interest for awhile:

“We’ve got a pickcher like that at home. We lived in Jones’s Alley
wunst–in that house over there. How d’yer like livin’ in Jones’s
Alley?”

“I don’t like it at all. I don’t like having to bring my children up
where there are so many bad houses; but I can’t afford to go somewhere
else and pay higher rent.”

“Well, there is a good many night-shops round here. But
then,” he added, reflectively, “you’ll find them everywheres. An’,
besides, the kids git sharp, an’ pick up a good deal in an alley like
this; ‘twon’t do ’em no harm; it’s no use kids bein’ green if they
wanter get on in a city. You ain’t been in Sydney all yer life, have
yer?”

“No. We came from the bush, about five years ago. My poor husband
thought he could do better in the city. I was brought up in the
bush.”‘