Then there was old Antanas.  The winter came, and the place where he worked was a dark, unheated cellar, where you could see your breath all day, and where your fingers sometimes tried to freeze.  So the old man’s cough grew every day worse, until there came a time when it hardly ever stopped, and he had become a nuisance about the place.  Then, too, a still more dreadful thing happened to him; he worked in a place where his feet were soaked in chemicals, and it was not long before they had eaten through his new boots.  Then sores began to break out on his feet, and grow worse and worse.  Whether it was that his blood was bad, or there had been a cut, he could not say; but he asked the men about it, and learned that it was a regular thing—­it was the saltpeter.  Every one felt it, sooner or later, and then it was all up with him, at least for that sort of work.  The sores would never heal—­in the end his toes would drop off, if he did not quit.  Yet old Antanas would not quit; he saw the suffering of his family, and he remembered what it had cost him to get a job.  So he tied up his feet, and went on limping about and coughing, until at last he fell to pieces, all at once and in a heap, like the One-Horse Shay.  They carried him to a dry place and laid him on the floor, and that night two of the men helped him home.  The poor old man was put to bed, and though he tried it every morning until the end, he never could get up again.  He would lie there and cough and cough, day and night, wasting away to a mere skeleton.  There came a time when there was so little flesh on him that the bones began to poke through—­which was a horrible thing to see or even to think of.  And one night he had a choking fit, and a little river of blood came out of his mouth.  The family, wild with terror, sent for a doctor, and paid half a dollar to be told that there was nothing to be done.  Mercifully the doctor did not say this so that the old man could hear, for he was still clinging to the faith that tomorrow or next day he would be better, and could go back to his job.  The company had sent word to him that they would keep it for him—­or rather Jurgis had bribed one of the men to come one Sunday afternoon and say they had.  Dede Antanas continued to believe it, while three more hemorrhages came; and then at last one morning they found him stiff and cold.  Things were not going well with them then, and though it nearly broke Teta Elzbieta’s heart, they were forced to dispense with nearly all the decencies of a funeral; they had only a hearse, and one hack for the women and children; and Jurgis, who was learning things fast, spent all Sunday making a bargain for these, and he made it in the presence of witnesses, so that when the man tried to charge him for all sorts of incidentals, he did not have to pay.  For twenty-five years old Antanas Rudkus and his son had dwelt in the forest together, and it was hard to part in this way; perhaps it was just as well that Jurgis had to give all his attention to the task of having a funeral without being bankrupted, and so had no time to indulge in memories and grief.