Then there were crying brats, and all sorts of misery; a man would have had to be a good deal of a hero to stand it all without grumbling, and Jonas was not in the least a hero⁠—he was simply a weather-beaten old fellow who liked to have a good supper and sit in the corner by the fire and smoke his pipe in peace before he went to bed. Here there was not room by the fire, and through the winter the kitchen had seldom been warm enough for comfort. So, with the springtime, what was more likely than that the wild idea of escaping had come to him? Two years he had been yoked like a horse to a half-ton truck in Durham’s dark cellars, with never a rest, save on Sundays and four holidays in the year, and with never a word of thanks⁠—only kicks and blows and curses, such as no decent dog would have stood. And now the winter was over, and the spring winds were blowing⁠—and with a day’s walk a man might put the smoke of Packingtown behind him forever, and be where the grass was green and the flowers all the colors of the rainbow!