William fled away, glad to be exonerated. And Mrs. Morel, who hated any bother with the neighbours, thought she would explain to Mrs. Anthony, and the business would be over.
But that evening Morel came in from the pit looking very sour. He stood in the kitchen and glared round, but did not speak for some minutes. Then:
“Wheer’s that Willy?” he asked.
“What do you want him for?” asked Mrs. Morel, who had guessed.
“I’ll let ’im know when I get him,” said Morel, banging his pit-bottle on to the dresser.
“I suppose Mrs. Anthony’s got hold of you and been yarning to you about their Alfy’s collar,” said Mrs. Morel, rather sneering.
“Niver mind who’s got hold of me,” said Morel. “When I get hold of ’im I’ll make his bones rattle.”
“It’s a poor tale,” said Mrs. Morel, “that you’re so ready to side with any snipey vixen who likes to come telling tales against your own children.”
“I’ll learn ’im!” said Morel. “It none matters to me whose lad ’e is; ’e’s none goin’ rippin’ an’ tearin’ about just as he’s a mind.”
“ ‘Ripping and tearing about’!” repeated Mrs. Morel. “He was running after that Alfy, who’d taken his cobbler, and he accidentally got hold of his collar, because the other dodged—as an Anthony would.”
“I know!” shouted Morel threateningly.
“You would, before you’re told,” replied his wife bitingly.
“Niver you mind,” stormed Morel. “I know my business.”
“That’s more than doubtful,” said Mrs. Morel, “supposing some loud-mouthed creature had been getting you to thrash your own children.”
“I know,” repeated Morel.
And he said no more, but sat and nursed his bad temper. Suddenly William ran in, saying:
“Can I have my tea, mother?”
“Tha can ha’e more than that!” shouted Morel.
“Hold your noise, man,” said Mrs. Morel; “and don’t look so ridiculous.”
“He’ll look ridiculous before I’ve done wi’ him!” shouted Morel, rising from his chair and glaring at his son.
William, who was a tall lad for his years, but very sensitive, had gone pale, and was looking in a sort of horror at his father.
