Free Ideal by Ayn Rand

traveling salesman for a cosmetic concern.
    â€œSome people,” said Mrs. Chuck Fink, “sure do have to travel. And then again, some don’t.”
    Chuck Fink owned his business, an all-night restaurant on South Main Street, Chuck’s Place, with eight stools by the counter and an electric coffee boiler.
    â€œNow, now, Flobelle,” said Jeremiah Sliney, sensing danger, “we all do the best we can, as God permits.”
    When the table was cleared, and they all sat silently in a circle on stiff, worn chairs and stared at the windows where tall gray weeds rustled softly against the sills; when Jeremiah Sliney lit his pipe, and Eustace Hennessey lit his cigar, and Angelina Sliney lit a cigarette under the smoldering glances of her sisters-in-law, and Melissa disappeared mysteriously into the kitchen, Mrs. Jeremiah Sliney sighed sweetly and said timidly, her little hands opening and closing nervously:
    â€œNow, about that mortgage . . . it’s due day after tomorrow.”
    There was a dead silence.
    â€œFunny how many people drive around these days,” said Chuck Fink, looking at the distant headlights in the hills, “and at this time of the night. And in the hills, too.”
    â€œIf we don’t pay, they’ll take the house. The mortgage people, I mean,” said Mrs. Jeremiah Sliney.
    â€œHard times, these are,” said Mrs. Eustace Hennessey. “We all have our troubles.”
    â€œIf . . . It would be a shame to lose the old house like that,” said Jeremiah Sliney and chuckled. His pale blue eyes blinked under a moist, whitish film. His gentle old face smiled hesitantly.
    â€œWe all have our cross to bear,” sighed Mrs. Eustace Hennessey. “Times ain’t what they used to be. Now, take us, for instance. There’s Melissa’s future to think about. A girl’s gotta have a little something to offer to get herself a husband, these days. Men ain’t so easily satisfied. It ain’t like some folks what have their own business.”
    â€œJunior had the whooping cough,” said Mrs. Chuck Fink hurriedly,“and the doctor’s bills is something fierce. We’ll never get outta debt. It ain’t like some people that never knowed the blessing of parenthood.”
    She looked resentfully at Angelina Sliney. Angelina shrugged, her earrings tinkling.
    â€œIt’s a good thing some people don’t have no litter every nine months,” said Ulysses S. Grant Sliney, gloomily. “A man’s got a future to think about. How’m I ever gonna buy that meat counter of my own? Think I’m gonna sling hamburger for some other guy the rest of my life?”
    â€œIt’s fifty years we’ve lived in this house,” said Mrs. Jeremiah Sliney and sighed gently. “Oh my! What would ever become of us now?”
    â€œWith eggs the way they are,” sighed Jeremiah Sliney, “and our last cow what we had to sell . . . we just don’t have the money for the mortgage people at all.” He chuckled. He always chuckled when he spoke, a hesitant little chuckle that sounded like a moan.
    â€œOh my!” sighed Mrs. Jeremiah Sliney. “It would be the . . . poorhouse for us.”
    â€œThese are hard times,” said Mrs. Eustace Hennessey.
    There was a silence.
    â€œWell,” said Chuck Fink noisily, bouncing up, “here it is going on eleven and it’s pretty near to twenty miles driving back home. Gotta be going, Flobelle. Time to hit the hay. Gotta get up early. It’s the early bird that catches the good old nickels.”
    â€œUs, too,” said Mrs. Eustace Hennessey, rising. “Melissa! Where’s that girl gone to? Melissa!”
    Melissa emerged from the kitchen, her face flushed red under the pimples.
    There were many kisses and handshakes at the door.
    â€œNow you run on to bed, Ma,” said Mrs. Chuck Fink. “And don’t you