soon starve in the streets, and wade in its icy puddles, too, as live
here with you and your nasty boys and work in that old canning factory!
I just wonder how you'd feel if I went out this morning and never, never
came back! I'd like to do that!"

Mrs. Freg laughed, and her laugh was not a nice mother-laugh at all, for
she was not Eric's mother, and had never pretended that she was.

"Why, little spitfire, it wouldn't matter a bit except to make one less
mouth to feed. But you won't be so silly as that. You don't want to
starve."

"All right," said little Eric, snatching his cap from its peg. "You said
it wouldn't matter to you. You won't see me again, any of you. I hate
you all, and everything in the world. I hate you. You've made me hate
you hard!"

Then he suddenly ran out into the street.

In a minute he was in a flood of people, men, women and children moving
towards the canning factory, a big brick building on the outskirts of
the city. Eric had worked in that factory from the day he was seven.
There is no need to tell you what he did there, for this is not the
story of the canning factory Eric,--the queer, hating Eric who had waked
up that morning.

But how he did hate! His eyes were full of hating tears, and they were
running down his face, making horrid white streaks on his dirty cheeks.
He was hating so hard that he did not even care if people saw his tears.
He lifted his face straight up and dropped his arms straight down at his