"Well, I should think you'd be glad to get clear of this," cried
their visitor. "Florida camps ain't all so bad."

"We've no money to move, ma'am," Grandpa said bluntly. "It took
near all we'd earned to get here, and now no job!"

"This Italian next door says they're advertising for, cotton
pickers in Texas," Daddy said, cradling Sally in one arm while he
held her little clawlike hand in his, feeling its fever.

"We haven't got wings, to fly there," Grandma objected.

Mrs. King looked thoughtfully around the wretched shelter. A few
clothes hung from corner posts; a few tin dishes were piled in a
box cupboard. The children were clean as children could be in
such a place. But the visitor's glance lingered longest on the
clock.

"Your clock and mine are like as two peas," she observed. "Forty
years ago I got mine, on my wedding day."

"Mine was a wedding present, too. And my feather beds that I had
to let go at fifty cents apiece. . . ." Grandma quavered.

"These are queer times." Mrs. King shook her head. "I do wish I
had the means to lend a hand like a real neighbor. There's this,
though--my mister took in a big old auto on a debt, and he'll
leave you have it for what the debt was--fifteen dollars, seems
like."