Once or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question
of Szedvilas; the other did not know a word that he
was saying, but his eyes were fixed upon the lawyer’s
face, striving in an agony of dread to read his mind.
He saw the lawyer look up and laugh, and he gave a
gasp; the man said something to Szedvilas, and Jurgis
turned upon his friend, his heart almost stopping.
“Well?” he panted.
“He says it is all right,” said Szedvilas.
“All right!”
“Yes, he says it is just as it should be.”
And Jurgis, in his relief, sank down into a chair.
“Are you sure of it?” he gasped, and made
Szedvilas translate question after question.
He could not hear it often enough; he could not ask
with enough variations. Yes, they had bought the
house, they had really bought it. It belonged
to them, they had only to pay the money and it would
be all right. Then Jurgis covered his face with
his hands, for there were tears in his eyes, and he
felt like a fool. But he had had such a horrible
fright; strong man as he was, it left him almost too
weak to stand up.
The lawyer explained that the rental was a form—the
property was said to be merely rented until the last
payment had been made, the purpose being to make it
easier to turn the party out if he did not make the
payments. So long as they paid, however, they
had nothing to fear, the house was all theirs.
Jurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar
the lawyer asked without winking an eyelash, and then
rushed home to tell the news to the family. He
found Ona in a faint and the babies screaming, and
the whole house in an uproar—for it had
been believed by all that he had gone to murder the
agent. It was hours before the excitement could
be calmed; and all through that cruel night Jurgis
would wake up now and then and hear Ona and her stepmother
in the next room, sobbing softly to themselves.
They had bought their home. It was hard for them
to realize that the wonderful house was theirs to
move into whenever they chose. They spent all
their time thinking about it, and what they were going
to put into it. As their week with Aniele was
up in three days, they lost no time in getting ready.
They had to make some shift to furnish it, and every
instant of their leisure was given to discussing this.
A person who had such a task before him would not
need to look very far in Packingtown—he
had only to walk up the avenue and read the signs,
or get into a streetcar, to obtain full information
as to pretty much everything a human creature could
need. It was quite touching, the zeal of people
to see that his health and happiness were provided
for. Did the person wish to smoke? There
was a little discourse about cigars, showing him exactly
why the Thomas Jefferson Five-cent Perfecto was the
only cigar worthy of the name. Had he, on the
