B. M. Bower

“ It’s just because you’re supposed to—to like your mothers better than anybody. In books it’s that way, always. Mothers and fathers are supposed to be liked, ain’t they? Is it”—he looked appealingly at the other—“is it lower than a snake in a forty-foot well to hate your mother, when your mother gave your dad the double-cross, and you don’t remember her, and then she comes and takes your crutches away?”
The man meditated a moment, looking at Skookum’s wistful face. “Well, that depends,” he said guardedly. “Mothers aren’t always like those you read about in books ”

“ And he didn’t know your name, so I told him I was going to call you that, and Burns said all right. Will you make her go away? She’s liable to make Lorrie cry—and I’ve got to take care of Lorrie. And she took my crutches, and she called me darling. I hate her!”
“You're sure a bad man when you're all stirred up,” remarked the other evasively, and limped away before Skookum could force him into any rash promises. ”

“ He took up the crutches, slid them under his arm and stood where he was. In his high-heeled boots he could look down into the woman’s face, even though she was, as Skookum had complained, “an awful big, strong woman.” “There’s another thing Skookum would like,” he went on placidly. “He would like to have you go away; and Skookum,” he added meaningly, “always gets what he likes. I think we won’t make this any exception to the general rule. The man hasn’t unloaded your trunk yet, I see; too lazy to do it alone. ”