What will poor Mrs. Sikora do now? They ain't got a
thing."
And old man Sikora was brought home because his widow insisted upon it.
The neighbors came in and looked at the body and wept with Mrs. Sikora,
and the children sat around after school and looked uncomfortably at the
walls. And some one asked: "How you going to bury him, Mrs. Sikora?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Sikora, "I'm going to have a good funeral."
* * * * *
There was an insurance policy for $500. The Sikoras had kept it up,
scraping together the $10 premiums when the time came. Mrs. Sikora took
the policy to the husband of a woman whose washing she had done. The
husband was in the real estate business.
"I need money to bury my man," she said. "He died last night in the
hospital."
She was red-eyed and dressed in black and the real estate man said: "What
do you want?"
When Mrs. Sikora explained he gave her $400 for the policy and she went to
an undertaker. Her eyes were still red with crying. They stared at the
luxurious fittings of the undertaker's parlors. There were magnificent
palms in magnificent jardinieres, and plush chairs and large, inviting
sofas and an imposing mahogany desk and a cuspidor of shining brass.
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