“What did you work at?” Colum asked, shifting a bit on the bench to look more directly at me.“I was in service,” I said quietly, more quietly than I intended. I wondered if maybe the answer had gotten lost in the rumble of the engines. It didn’t.“Honest work,” Colum said. I knew that that was what people say about work they consider beneath them. Hauling and scrubbing and digging are “honest work.” Grubbing and mucking? “Honest work.” Tell someone you’re a doctor or a mill owner, and they never say “honest work.”
“I can honestly say that I'm not the best person in the world but I'm working on it.”
“Of all men, Christians should work especially hard, giving more than an honest day's work for a day's wage.”
“Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!”
“You can always cheat an honest man, but it takes more work.”
“Try an’ try,” he said, “but when it comes day’s end, I can’t wash the pig off me. And your mother never complains. Not once, in all these years, has she ever said that I smell strong. I said once to her that I was sorry.” “What did Mama say?” “She said I smelled of honest work, and that there was no sorry to be said or heard.”