Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. They turned the last corner, and almost immediately a man who had been standing there turned and struck Ennison a violent blow on the cheek. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. She looked at it with a little shudder, but she made no motion to take it. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him.
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