Babies all over the sidewalks and streets, and the
men who weren't in the mills--you know how they look in
their Sunday shirtsleeves, with their flat faces, and high
cheekbones, and their great brown hands with the broken
nails. Hunkies. Well, at five the motor cars began
whizzing by from the country roads back to Chicago.
You have to go back that way. Just then the five o'clock
whistles blew and the day shift came off. There was a great
army of them, clumping down the road the way they do. Their
shoulders were slack, and their lunch pails dangled, empty,
and they were wet and reeking with sweat. The motor cars
were full of wild phlox and daisies and spiderwort."
Clarence was still turned sideways, looking at her. "Get a
picture of it?"
"Yes. I tried, at least."
"Is that the way you usually spend your Sundays?"
"Well, I--I like snooping about."
"M-m," mused Clarence. Then, "How's business, Fanny?"
"Business?" You could almost feel her mind jerk back. "Oh,
let's not talk about business on Sunday."
"I thought so," said Clarence, enigmatically.
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