A CHILD OF THE JAGO
gather in spots and fade a spot at a time. Then at last there was a tread on the stairs that stayed at the door, and father had come home. Dicky lay still, and listened.
"Lor, Josh, where ye bin?" Dicky heard his mother say. "I'm almost wore out a-waitin'."
"Awright, awright"—this in a hoarse grunt, little above a whisper—"Got any water up 'ere? Wash this 'ere stick."
There was a pause, wherein Dicky knew his mother looked about her in vacant doubt as to whether or not water was in the room. Then a quick, undertoned scream, and the stick rattled heavily on the floor. "It's sticky!" his mother said. "O, my Gawd, Josh, look at that—an' bits o' 'air, too!" The great shadow of an open hand shot up across the ceiling, and fell again. "O, Josh! O, my Gawd! You ain't, 'ave ye? Not—not—not that?"
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