burst
into tears.... "I don't see why I always got to do all the disagreeable
things in this house, and I always do got to, too! I--I--I'm tired, I
am!"

She sobbed on awhile brokenly, then slowly dried her eyes, for it was
half-past five and time to set to work for supper.

CHAPTER XIX

CRAZY WITH THE HEAT

Rosie was spoken of in the family as a good cook, but this afternoon
there was so little of any housewifely pride left in her that she fried
the potatoes as carelessly as Ellen would have fried them, and she
scorched the ham. She set the table after some fashion, and then, when
all was ready, went through the house calling, "Supper's ready! Supper's
ready!"

As the family straggled in, Rosie went on to her next duty of putting
George Riley's supper into a tin pail.

"Better hurry," Terence warned her. "You'll be missing Jarge's car."

"I can't hurry any faster," Rosie murmured; but she did, nevertheless,
snatch up the pail and start off.

It seemed to her the street was even hotter and more breathless than the
smoky kitchen. The late afternoon sun was still beating down on
pavements and houses and people, fiercely, unceasingly, as it had been
since early morning, and all things alike looked worn and dusty and
utterly fatigued. Little shop-girls were trailing listlessly home, their
hats crooked, their black waists limp with perspiration, their hair
hanging about their pale faces in shiny, damp strings. Yet, tired as
they were, they were still attempting forlorn, giggly little jokes and
friendly greetings.

One girl called out in passing: "Gee, Rosie, ain't this the limit?"
Another asked facetiously: "Well, kid, how does this weather suit you?"
and a third stopped her to exclaim breathlessly: "Say, Rosie, ain't you
just crazy with the heat!"

Rosie reached the corner in good time for George's car. There was a
slight congestion in traffic and George had a moment or two before
dashing back to his place on the rear platform. He looked dirty and hot.
His collar was in a soft welt, his face streaked with dust and
perspiration. His expression, usually good-natured, was gloomy and
irritable.

"What you got tonight?" he asked, lifting the lid of the pail. "What!
Ham again? Ham! What do you think I am? It's ham, ham, ham, every night
of the week till I'm sick and tired of it! Here! Take it back--I don't
want it! I'll buy me something decent to eat!"

"Why, Jarge!" Rosie had never heard him talk that wa