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She watched him sometimes, at the table, when on Sundays he ate the mid-day meal with them; his thin hatchet face, his prominent epiglottis. He wore a fresh cotton shirt then, with a flaming necktie, but he did not clean his fingernails. And his talk was always of tearing down, never of building up. "Just give us time, and we'll show them," he often said. And "them" was always the men higher up.
One of these was, "Ain't nigger enough in him to show in his fingernails, en dat takes mighty little yit dey's enough to pain his soul." Presently she muttered. "Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful of 'em." At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance began to clear a welcome sight to Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she was on the threshold of good humor now.
She asked him how he had been and what he was doing, but he felt that this was more a matter of taking up time than real interest. He had the feeling that somewhere deep inside, her soul was biting its fingernails. She spoke of Martha with pride and hope, she asked how Judge Carter was making out and whether Martha would be able to finish her schooling via Holden's machine.
Sharlee tapped the calcimine with her pointed fingernails. He spoke, as ever, with overweening confidence, but she knew that he would never win any editorship in this spirit. He was going at the quest with a new burst of intellectual contempt, though it was this very intellectual contempt that had led to his downfall. "But your own private work?" "Don't speak of it, I beg!"
He lighted a match nonchalantly, by the artfully simple method of pinching the head of it with his fingernails, leaned negligently against the wall of the bunk-house, and regarded the group incuriously while he smoked. "Any pretty girls up this way?" he inquired languidly, after a moment, fanning a thin smoke-cloud from before his face while he spoke. The Happy Family went prickly hot.
"It was after we saw Tom shuck some corn to feed the chickens he showed us how he did it," Rose answered. "But what did Russ and Laddie do?" "Oh, they went in and looked at the corn shucker. But they didn't put their hands in and turn the wheel, 'cause Tom said if they did that their fingernails would come off." "Mercy me! I shouldn't want that to happen," said Mrs. Bunker with a laugh.
The brusque reply is still remembered of Lawson Tait, the great English ovariotomist, to a distinguished German colleague, who had inquired the secret of his then marvelously low death-rate: after a glance at the bands of mourning on the ends of the other's fingers, he said, "I keep my fingernails clean, sir!"
He went ashore yesterday and bought himself a new blue coat. Not a cotton one, but silk, real silk, my boy, and beckoned me to come and see it, beckoned with one of his long claws. He's letting his fingernails grow now, and getting to be quite a swell." "Oh yes; old Ching's getting quite the gentleman. He says he wrote home to his broker to sell the fancee shop. What do you think he said, Gnat?"
But Van Emmon stood still in his tracks, his eyes fixed on the Goliath; his fingernails gashed the palms of his hands but he would not budge. And as he stared he saw, from first to last, the whole ghastly change that came, after billions of years of waiting, to the sole survivor of Mercury. A glaze swept over the huge figure.
If my hair comes out much when I comb it, it sets my heart beating; and it is a daily misery to me that my hands are larger than they should be, belonging to Edward's 'resplendent wife. I thank heaven that you and I always saw the necessity of being careful of our fingernails. My feet are of moderate size, though they are not French feet, as Edward says. No: I shall never dance.
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