ess. Your case is absolutely hopeless."

They became grim enemies, and both of them enjoyed it. She let our
small son come and sit by the bed. The Indian promptly worshiped Joe as
the "longest" man he had ever seen, and they became boon companions.

"It's pathetic," Eleanore told me, "the little things that appeal to him
here. Poor boy, he has forgotten what a decent home is like."

As he grew stronger she read the paper to him each morning, and they
quarreled with keen relish over the news events of the day. And as at
the start, so now, she kept giving him little shocks of surprise by her
intimate glimpses into his views. On one of these occasions, after she
had come out from his room and was sitting by me reading,

"You're a wonder, Eleanore," I said. "I don't see how you've done it."

"Done what, my love?" asked Eleanore.

"Wormed all his views out of poor old Joe."

"I haven't done anything of the sort. I've learned over half of it from
Sue. She comes here often nowadays and we have long talks about him. Sue
seems to know him rather well."

This did not interest me much, so I switched our talk to something that
did.

"What bothers me," I said with a scowl, "is this infernal work of mine.
What are you smiling at?" I asked.

"Nothing," she murmured, beginning to read. "But if I were you I'd stick
at my work. You're good at that."

"Not now I'm not," I retorted. "This story about the opera man isn't
coming on at all! The more I work the worse it gets!"

"It will get better soon," she said.

"I'm not so sure. Do you know what I think is the matter with me? I was
in to-day looking at Joe asleep, and watching the lines in that face of
his it came over me all of a sudden what a wretched coward I've been."
Eleanore looked up suddenly. "I know there's something in all his talk,
I've known it every time we've met. His view's so distorted it makes me
mad, but there's something in it you can't get away from. Poverty,
that's what it is, and I've always steered way clear of it as though I
were afraid to look. I've taken your father's point of view and left the
slums for him and his friends to tackle when they get the time. I was
only too glad to be left out. But that hour with J. K. and his stokers
gave me a jolt. I can feel it still. I can't seem to shake it off. And
I'm beginning to wonder now why I shouldn't get up the nerve to see for
myself, to have a good big look at it all--and write about it for a
while."