His father rustled the paper. “I said good-by, Roscoe.”
“Good-by,” said Roscoe, listlessly.
Sheridan waited until he heard the sound of the outer door closing; then he rose and pushed a tiny disk set in the wall. Jackson appeared.
“Has Bibbs got home from work?”
“Mist’ Bibbs? No, suh.”
“Tell him I want to see him, soon as he comes.”
Sheridan returned to his chair and fixed his attention fiercely upon the newspaper. He found it difficult to pursue the items beyond their explanatory rubrics—there was nothing unusual or startling to concentrate his attention:
“Motorman Puts Blame on Brakes.
Three Killed when Car Slides.”
“Burglars Make Big Haul.”
“Board Works Approve Big Car-line Extension.”
“Hold-up Men Injure Two. Man Found in Alley, Skull Fractured.”
“Sickening Story Told in Divorce Court.”
“Plan New Eighteen-story Structure.”
“School-girl Meets Death under Automobile.”
“Negro Cuts Three. One Dead.”
“Life Crushed Out. Third Elevator Accident in Same Building Causes
Action by Coroner.”
“Declare Militia will be Menace. Polish Societies Protest to
Governor in Church Rioting Case.”
“Short $3,500 in Accounts, Trusted Man Kills Self with Drug.”
“Found Frozen. Family Without Food or Fuel. Baby Dead when
Parents Return Home from Seeking Work.”
“Minister Returned from Trip Abroad Lectures on Big Future of Our
City. Sees Big Improvement during Short Absence. Says No
European City Holds Candle.” (Sheridan nodded approvingly here.)
Bibbs came through the hall whistling, and entered the room briskly. “Well, father, did you want me?”
“Yes. Sit down.” Sheridan got up, and Bibbs took a seat by the fire, holding out his hands to the crackling blaze, for it was cold outdoors.