Mrs. Wiggs's untiring efforts to find employment had met with no
success, and Jim's exertions were redoubled; day by day his scanty
earnings became less sufficient to meet the demands of the family.

On Christmas eve they sat over the stove, after the little ones had
gone to bed, and discussed the situation. The wind hurled itself
against the house in a very frenzy of rage, shaking the icicles from
the window-ledge and hissing through the patched panes. The snow
that sifted in through the loose sash lay unmelted on the sill. Jim
had a piece of old carpet about him, and coughed with almost every
breath. Mrs. Wiggs's head was in her hands, and the tears that
trickled through her crooked fingers hissed as they fell on the
stove. It was the first time Jim had ever seen her give up.

"Seems like we'll have to ast fer help, Jim," she said. "I can't
ast fer credit at Mr. Bagby's; seems like I'd never have the
courage to pull agin a debt. What do you think? I guess--it looks
like mebbe we'll have to apply to the organization."

Jim's eyes flashed. "Not yet, ma!" he said, firmly. "It 'ud be with
us like it was with the Hornbys; they didn't have nothin' to eat,
and they went to the organization ant the man asted 'em if they had
a bed or a table, an' when they said yes, he said, 'Well, why don't
you sell 'em?' No, ma! As long as we've got coal I'll git the
vittles some way!" He had to pause, for a violent attack of coughing
shook him from head to foot. "I think I can git a night job next
week; one of the market-men comes in from the country ever' night to
git a early start next morning an' he ast me if I'd sleep in his
wagon from three to six an' keep his vegetables from bein' stole.