I'll make only one more run with the car today. Business is bad anyway."
"Why don't you hire somebody to run the car—or give it up entirely?" Jane asked, worry written on her young face. She spoke as if she were repeating and old request, with little chance of having it granted.
"Oh, I couldn't do that," Pop said gently, patting her on the shoulder.
"We could get along somehow," Jane went on impetuously. "I could go to work."
"No—no," Pop replied. "I'd be lost without the car. And, besides, these trolley lines are going to need this little patch of roadbed some time, and then maybe they'll be willing to pay us something for it. Just as Mr. Rockwell said. And we can sell out and go to the country."
"You're always saying that. I don't believe you'd even sell. You'll just never leave it."
"There, there, Janie," Pop clumsily strove to comfort the protesting girl. "And what have we got to eat today?" he asked brightly, trying to change the subject. "Just open it up there in the car and I'll be right back after I put the feed-bag on Nellie and wash my hands."
The old man hobbled over to an ancient oats bin and filled his horse's nose bag with a succulent mixture. He approached the blinking animal, removed the frayed straw hat that still absurdly fitted over Nellie's ears and fastened the bag on her. The horse started munching at once. Pop walked to a tap in the corner, washed his hands and dried them
