Skip sat up and rubbed the hair out of his eyes, yawned, put his bare feet on the floor. His uncle was already gone. He had made his bed on the other side of the room; it was neat and square under the white cotton counterpane. His uncle was probably already in the house now, cooking Mr. Chilworth’s breakfast. After cooking, and washing up the dishes, he’d start cleaning the house. In the afternoons his uncle worked in the garden. Mr. Chilworth was a bachelor, eighty-six years old, still hating women so badly he refused to keep a cleaning woman on the place. Skip’s uncle performed as cook, maid, gardener, and chauffeur; and because Mr. Chilworth was practically impoverished now, the wages were poor, but Mr. Chilworth was broad-minded about a man with a prison record, and Skip’s uncle had one. A long one.

Mr. Chilworth’s charitable attitude was based in part upon the fact that there was nothing around worth stealing.

Skip went to the tiny bathroom and showered, brushed his teeth, shaved. He then looked over his uncle’s shirts in the bureau drawer and chose one that he disliked less than the rest. His uncle was about his size, a slim wiry little man; he had Skip’s foxy expression, though it was much subdued. He had learned to keep his eyes down. He walked with a shuffle. Mr. Chilworth’s one complaint about his man of all work was that he came upon you silently, without warning. At first, seven months ago, Mr. Chilworth had found it annoying.

When Skip was through dressing, he went down the outer staircase to the yard, through the yard to the rear door of the big house. Here was a large screened porch, on it some of the overflow from the kitchen, boxes of pots and pans no longer needed, cases of health food and vegetable juices, an old refrigerator minus its door where Mr. Chilworth kept oranges and grapefruit. Skip went through to the enormous kitchen. His uncle Willy was sitting at a breadboard pulled out from the cabinet, drinking coffee and reading a racing sheet. Uncle Willy nodded without speaking. His gaze lingered for a moment on his shirt.

“How’s for breakfast?” said Skip, the usual greeting.

Skip’s uncle rose and went to the stove and lit a fire under a skillet. It had already been used for Mr. Chilworth’s meal and had some scraps of egg in the bottom. Uncle Willy broke two eggs in a bowl, beat them with a fork, grated some cheese over them, added a dollop of cream, dumped the whole into the pan. “Watch it,” he said, going back to his stool by the breadboard.