His mother laughed a laugh that seemed to ring through the
city and be echoed and re-echoed by countless other laughs.
"Oh, yes, I will, won't I! Sure!"
"Well, yeh must take me fer a damn fool," said Jimmie,
indignant at his mother for mocking him. "I didn't say we'd make
'er inteh a little tin angel, ner nottin', but deh way it is now
she can queer us! Don' che see?"
"Aye, she'll git tired of deh life atter a while an' den
she'll wanna be a-comin' home, won' she, deh beast! I'll let 'er
in den, won' I?"
"Well, I didn' mean none of dis prod'gal bus'ness anyway,"
explained Jimmie.
"It wasn't no prod'gal dauter, yeh damn fool," said the
mother. "It was prod'gal son, anyhow."
"I know dat," said Jimmie.
For a time they sat in silence. The mother's eyes gloated on
a scene her imagination could call before her. Her lips were set
in a vindictive smile.
"Aye, she'll cry, won' she, an' carry on, an' tell how Pete,
or some odder feller, beats 'er an' she'll say she's sorry an' all
dat an' she ain't happy, she ain't, an' she wants to come home agin,
she does."
With grim humor, the mother imitated the possible wailing
notes of the daughter's voice.
"Den I'll take 'er in, won't I, deh beast. She kin cry 'er two eyes out
on deh stones of deh street before I'll dirty deh place wid her.
She abused an' ill-treated her own mudder--her own mudder what
loved her an' she'll never git anodder chance dis side of hell."
Jimmie thought he had a great idea of women's frailty, but he
could not understand why any of his kin should be victims.
"Damn her," he fervidly said.
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