He stood up presently, closed the shop, and went home. Afterward his
uncle came in a fierce humor, slamming the door. He found Andy sitting
in front of the table staring down at his hands.

"Buck Heath has been talkin' about you," said Jasper.

Andy raised his head. "Look at 'em!" he said as he spread out his hands.
"I been scrubbin' 'em with sand soap for half an hour, and the oil and
the iron dust won't come out."

Uncle Jasper, who had a quiet voice and gentle manners, now stood rigid.
"I wisht to God that some iron dust would work its way into your
soul," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothin' you could understand; you need a mother to explain things to
you."

The other got up, white about the mouth. "I think I do," said Andy.
"I'm sick inside."

"Where's supper?" demanded Jasper.

Andy sat down again, and began to consider his hands once more. "There's
something wrong--something dirty about this life."

"Is there?" Uncle Jasper leaned across the table, and once again the old
ghost of a hope was flickering behind his eyes. "Who's been talkin'
to you?"