incapable, worn-out woman who was Jimmy's mother. Against something
else, something I could not place or define or call by name, it was
rising stormily. "I know you need Jimmy's help," I said, after a
moment, "but he is too young to work, too small."

"Came near not getting a job 'count of not being no bigger."

His mouth filled with half a biscuit, the boy nodded at me gleefully,
then putting down his spoon, he dusted his hands and wiped them on
the side of his trousers. "The first place mother and me went to,
they wouldn't take me 'cause the table where I'd had to work struck
me right here." His hands swiped his throat just under his chin.
"But the next place was all right. They had a boys' table and the
bench was made high on purpose."

"What is it you do?" I asked, and again my voice sounded strange.
"Is it a box-factory you're in?"

"Soap and pills." Head thrown back, Jimmy drained the last drop of
coffee from his cup, then scraped the latter with a tin spoon for its
last bit of sugar. "We are pasters, our gang is. We paste the paper
on the boxes. There's a boy sits next to me what's the fastest
paster in town, but I'm going to beat him some day. I can paste
almost as fast as he can now."

"He could beat him now if he didn't play so much." In his mother's
voice was neither scolding nor complaint. "Jimmy always would play
some from the time he was born. His boss says he's the best worker
he's got 'cepting the boy who sits next to him, and if he'd just stay
still all day--"