Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Shearrivedoutofbreathfromthekitchen,thepotatomasherinherhand.“Suchchildren,”shemurmured,shakingherheadatthem,amusedforallthat,tuckingthepotatomasherunderherarmandclappingherhands.Intheend,itwaspartofthegamethatSidneyshouldtumbledownuponDyke,whereatheinvariablyventedagreatbellowasifinpain,declaringthathisribswerebroken.Gasping,hiseyesshut,hepretendedtobeintheextremeofdissolution—perhapshewasdying.Sidney,alwaysalittleuncertain,amusedbutdistressed,shookhimnervously,tuggingathisbeard,pushingopenhiseyelidwithonefinger,imploringhimnottofrightenher,towakeupandbegood.

           Onthisoccasion,whileyethewashalf-dressed,Dyketiptoedintohismother’sroomtolookatSidneyfastasleepinherlittleironcot,herarmunderherhead,herlipsparted.Withinfiniteprecautionhekissedhertwice,andthenfindingonelittlestocking,hungwithitsmateveryneatlyoverthebackofachair,droppedintoitadime,rolledupinawadofpaper.Hewinkedalltohimselfandwentoutagain,closingthedoorwithexaggeratedcarefulness.

           Hebreakfastedalone,Mrs.Dykepouringhiscoffeeandhandinghimhisplateofhamandeggs,andhalfanhourlatertookhimselfoffinhisspringless,skeletonwagon,hummingatunebehindhisbeardandcrackingthewhipoverthebacksofhisstaidandsolidfarmhorses.

           Themorningwasfine,thesunjustcomingup.