Out of Context

The Jungle
Upton Sinclair

A sob choked Stanislovas, and he stopped. “What’s the matter with Marija?” cried Jurgis.

“She’s cut her hand!” said the boy. “She’s cut it bad, this time, worse than before. She can’t work and it’s all turning green, and the company doctor says she may–she may have to have it cut off. And Marija cries all the time–her money is nearly all gone, too, and we can’t pay the rent and the interest on the house; and we have no coal and nothing more to eat, and the man at the store, he says–“

The little fellow stopped again, beginning to whimper. “Go on!” the other panted in frenzy–“Go on!”

“I–I will,” sobbed Stanislovas. “It’s so–so cold all the time. And last Sunday it snowed again–a deep, deep snow–and I couldn’t–couldn’t get to work.”

“God!” Jurgis half shouted, and he took a step toward the child. There was an old hatred between them because of the snow–ever since that dreadful morning when the boy had had his fingers frozen and Jurgis had had to beat him to send him to work. Now he clenched his hands, looking as if he would try to break through the grating.