When asking for more shoes from Cyrus Robinson, he had said nothing about his wife’s working upon them, but he knew that was the inference, and he did not contradict it.  He forbade Belinda to mention the matter in one way or another.  “The sarpent has got to feed the widows an’ the orphans,” he said, “an’ that’s a good reason for bein’ a sarpent.”

As Ann and Elmira did most of their work on the shoes during the day, Jerome fell into the habit of doing his part, the closing, in his uncle’s shop at night.  Every evening he would load himself with the sheaf of bound shoes and hasten down the road.  He liked to work in company with a man, rather than with his mother and Elmira; it gave him a sense of independence and maturity.  He did not mind so much delving away on those hard leather seams while his mates were out coasting and skating, for he had the sensation of responsibility—­of being the head of a family.  Here he felt like a man supporting his mother and sister; at home he was only a boy, held to his task under the thumb of a woman.

Then, too, his uncle Ozias’s conversation was a kind of pungent stimulant—­not pleasant to the taste, not even recognizable in all its savors, yet with a growing power of fascination.

Ozias Lamb’s shoemaker’s shop was simply a little one-room building in the centre of the field south of his cottage house.  He had in it a tiny box-stove, red-hot from fall to spring.  When Jerome, coming on a cold night, opened the door, a hot breath scented with dried leather rushed in his face.  Within sat his uncle on his shoemaker’s bench, short and squat like an Eastern idol on his throne.  His body was settled into itself with long habit of labor, his mind with contemplation.  His high, bald forehead overshadowed his lower face like a promontory of thought; his eyes, even when he was alone, were full of a wise, condemning observation; his mouth was inclined always in a set smile at the bitter humor of things.  The face of this elderly New England shoemaker looked not unlike some Asiatic conception of a deity.

Jerome always closed the door immediately when he entered, for Ozias dreaded a draught, having an inclination to rheumatism, and being also chilly, like most who sit at their labor.  Then he would seat himself on a stool, and close shoes, and listen when his uncle talked, as he did constantly when once warmed to it.  The little room was lighted by a whale-oil lamp on the wall.  On some nights the full moonlight streamed in the three windows athwart the lamp-light.  The room got hotter and closer.  Ozias now and then, as he talked, motioned Jerome, who put another stick of wood in the stove.  The whole atmosphere, spiritual and physical, seemed to grow combustible, and as if at any moment a word or a thought might cause a leap into flame.  A spirit of anarchy and revolution was caged in that little close room, bound to a shoemaker’s bench by the chain of labor for bread.  The spirit was harmless enough, for its cage and its chain were not to be escaped or forced, strengthened as they were by the usage of a whole life.  Ozias Lamb would deliver himself of riotous sentiments, but on that bench he would sit and peg shoes till his dying day.  He would have pegged there through a revolution.