“If I was him,” said Amy, in a low voice of passion, “I’d tie you to something and beat you till you lost your senses. Ugly brute!”
The warfare would not have ended here but that the door opened and he of whom they spoke made his appearance.
In the past two years and a half John Hewett had become a shaky old man. Of his grizzled hair very little remained, and little of his beard; his features were shrunken, his neck scraggy; he stooped much, and there was a senile indecision in his movements. He wore rough, patched clothing, had no collar, and seemed, from the state of his hands, to have been engaged in very dirty work. As he entered and came upon the riotous group his eyes lit up with anger. In a strained voice he shouted a command of silence.
“It’s all that Tom, father,” piped Annie. “There’s no living with him.”
John’s eye fell on the broken window.
“Which of you’s done that?” he asked sternly, pointing to it.
No one spoke.
“Who’s goin’ to pay for it, I’d like to know? Doesn’t it cost enough to keep you,
