"There, that's better."

"Come this way," Hertha called, and to the surprise of the others the
boy followed her down the hall into her bedroom.

Getting some hot water, she helped him roll up his sleeves and then,
handing him her soap, told him to wash.

At this point he shook his head vigorously. "I can't, Miss," he
explained; "it would chap 'em. Yer don't wash yer hands in winter."

"Just try," she suggested.

With a great splash he plunged in his hands, found the warm water
pleasant, the soap agreeably slippery; and while he scowled as he
rubbed, under Hertha's silent supervision, he made a thorough job.

"Now, look," she said when he had finished with her towel.

The boy looked down and out beyond his coat-sleeves, where once there
had been black, were now white, astonishingly white, hands. They gleamed
against his dark trousers. Slowly a smile spread over his face as though
he were welcoming back summer friends.

"Tom could never get a result like that," Hertha thought as they walked
into the kitchen together. She placed the lad at Kathleen's left where
he watched voraciously the carving of the deliciously browned turkey. He
grabbed at the first plate, which, nevertheless, went on its way to
Hertha. But when the second turned not to the left but to the right and
landed in front of Applebaum, his anger rose.

"Damn you," he said, grabbing Kathleen by the arm, "gimme something to
eat!"

In a flash she had boxed his ear. "Keep your mouth shut," she commanded,
"if you want to get anything in it. No wonder your poor mother's in the
hospital!"

The boy sniffled a little, but remained silent. When he received his
portion he fell upon it voraciously, swallowing potato in gulps, tearing
at bones, and cleaning the plate of its last drop of gravy. This
accomplished (it occupied not more than five minutes) he seized his cap,
ran from the room, leaving the doors wide open in his flight so that
they heard the front door slam, and rushed into the street.

Hertha looked at the empty plate. "I've seen hungry boys before, but
never one so hungry as that," she said.

"Poor little kid," said Kathleen, "and he missed his pudding!"

"You weren't pitying him a while ago." There was reproach in Hertha's
voice.

Kathleen made haste to explain. "That was the only language he knew. I
done that or he would have had us in hell in a minute. Perhaps you could
have managed better," she added, almost humbly, "you got him to wash