Heretofore Nance had regarded Mr. Snawdor as just one of the many
discomforts with which the family had to put up. His whining protests
against their way of living had come to be as much a matter of course as
the creaking door or the smoking chimney. Nobody ever thought of
listening to what he was saying, and everybody pushed and ordered him
about, including Nance, who enjoyed using Mrs. Snawdor's highhanded
method with him, when that lady was not present.
But when she saw him sitting there with his back to her, crying, she was
puzzled and disturbed. As she watched, she saw him fumble for something
under the quilt, then lift a shining pistol, and place the muzzle to his
thin, bald temple. With a cry of terror, she dashed forward and knocked
the weapon from his hand.
"You put that down!" she cried, much as she would have commanded William
J. to leave the butcher knife alone. "Do you want to kill yerself?"
Mr. Snawdor started violently, then collapsing beside the bed, confessed
that he did.
"What fer?" asked Nance, terror giving way to sheer amazement.
"I want to quit!" cried Mr. Snawdor, hysterically. "I can't stand it any
longer. I'm a plumb failure and I ain't goin' to ever be anything else.
If your maw had taken care of what I had, we wouldn't have been where we
are at. Look at the way we live! Like pigs in a pen! We're nothing but
pore white trash; that's what we are!"
Nance stood beside him with her hand on his shoulder. Poor white trash!
That was what the Clarke boy had called her.
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