pecks--bushels--tons of these brown balls in their time.

At five-thirty Pa came in. At six, Minnie. She had to go back to the
Sugar Bowl until nine. Five minutes later the supper was steaming on
the table.

"Ernie," called Ma, toward the ceiling. "Er-nie! Supper's on." The three
sat down at the table without waiting. Pa had slipped off his shoes, and
was in his stockinged feet. They ate in silence. It was a good meal. A
European family of the same class would have considered it a banquet.
There were meat and vegetables, butter and home-made bread, preserve and
cake, true to the standards of the extravagant American labouring-class
household. In the summer the garden supplied them with lettuce, beans,
peas, onions, radishes, beets, potatoes, corn, thanks to Ma's aching
back and blistered hands. They stored enough vegetables in the cellar to
last through the winter.

Buzz usually cleaned up after supper. But to-night, when he came down,
he was already clean-shaven, clean-shirted, and his hair was wet from
the comb. He took his place in silence. His acid-stained work shoes had
been replaced by his good tan ones. Evidently he was going down town
after supper. Buzz never took any exercise for the sake of his body's
good. Sometimes he and the Lembke boys across the way played a game of
ball in the middle of the road, or in the vacant lot, but they did it
out of the game instinct, and with no thought of their muscles' gain.

But to-night, evidently, there was to be no ball. Buzz ate little. His
mother, forever between the stove and the table, ate less. But that was
nothing unusual in her. She waited on the others, but mostly she hovered
about the boy.