Lloyd's was shut for the rest of the day, for his brother in St.Louis was dead, and had been brought to Rowe to be buried, and his funeral was at two o'clock.
"Goin' to the funeral, old man ?" one of Andrew's fellow-workmen had asked, jostling him as he went out of the shop at noon.

Before Andrew could answer, another voice broke in fiercely.

It belonged to Joseph Atkins, who was ghastly that day.
"I ain't goin' to no funerals," he said; "guess they won't shut up shop for mine." Then he coughed.

His daughter Abby, who had been working in the factory for some time then, pressed close behind her father, and the expression in her face was an echo of his.
"When I strike, that's what I'm going to strike for--to have the shop shut up the day of my funeral," said she; and the remark had a ghastly flippancy, contradicted by her intense manner.

A laugh went around, and a young fellow with a handsome, unshaven face caught her by the arm.
"You'd better strike to have the shop shut up the day you're married," said he; but Abby flung away from him.
"I'll thank you to let me alone, Tom Hardy," she said, with a snap; and the men laughed harder.
Abby was attractive to men in spite of her smallness and leanness and incisiveness of manner.