“Lord Heavens,” cried the Inger, “why don’t they light in an’ smash ’em—like _men_?” She did not hear him. The three women in the corner were looking at her curiously, and she wondered why. As she walked by them toward the door, she thought that she heard one of them whisper: “She don’t know!” When she reached the door, she turned back and looked at them. “Do you live near?” the proprietor’s wife asked her. “Just since to-day,” the girl said. “I just come—from California.” “Oh!” the woman comprehended. “Come in again—soon.” And something else she added that sounded like “To-morrow—maybe?” Lory nodded and they went out. “The whole place seems to be waitin’ for somethin’,” the Inger was saying. “Why don’t they jump in—why don’t they jump in?” The girl was not listening. She was looking at the groups of women in the doorways. The two walked back to the chubby house. It was frowning, for there were no lights in its windows, save a glimmer from the kitchen where the gas jet always burned. “Not out there,” said the Inger, as they went in the dark passage. “Don’t let’s go where the old man is.” “I can hear talking,” Lory said only, and threw open the kitchen door. The supper table was still covered, with its litter of dishes. On the settle the old man was lying, with his head lifted, watching. Beside the stove sat the Inger’s father and Bunchy Haight. No one else was in the room. VIII THE Inger stepped in front of Lory, and, before the others turned, wheeled to face her. “Go get your aunt here,” he said, under his voice, and, as she retreated, closed the passage door upon her. Then he turned to the room. “Well, Dad!” he cried. “Well, Bunchy! Better have another stick or two on the fire, hadn’t we?” he offered. While the Inger followed his own suggestion, Bunchy watched him, lowering. But the Inger’s father began to talk. “Bunchy was comin’ along here—he was comin’ along,” he explained, “so I thought I’d come along too. I thought I better come along too—” His son glanced at him keenly, wondering at his uncertain manner. As the stove door closed, the Inger inquired with perfect interest: “How’d you find the place—go to Chicago?” “Yes, damn you,” said Bunchy, suddenly, and rose, and without warning threw himself upon the Inger. It took longer than one would have thought, for though the Inger was physically fit and Bunchy was flabby and overfed, he had the strength of blind anger. It cost a distinct effort for the Inger to throw him. He went down with his head on the zinc, and the Inger, with his knee on his chest and his hand on his throat, took breath and regarded him. Bunchy’s little eyes looked up at him like the eyes of a trapped wolf. His thick, raw lips were working.