Like axes! It seemed that, of his passion (and she never before had seen passion in his face), he scarcely could speak. He fought for words. When they came out they thudded out.
“Do you know where Huggo’s been this past month?”
“With the Thorntons, his friends.”
“He’s not. He’s lied. He’s been living with some blackguard friend in rooms in Turnhampton, in Buckinghamshire.”
“Harry! Doing what? Land-work?”
“Land-work! Loafing! Drinking!”
“Drinking? Huggo?”
“Listen to me. This is what I’ve come to. This is what that boy’s come to. I had to go down to this place Turnhampton about a spy they’d arrested. He was to come up in the police court there this morning. They took the other cases first. Court going to be cleared for my man. I sat there, waiting. The second case—this is what I’ve come to—was my son, my boy, Huggo, brought up from the cells where he’d spent the night. My son! Drunk and disorderly. He didn’t see me. The police gave him a character. I sat there and listened to it. My son! A visitor, the police described him. Supposed to be working on some farm. Not a desirable character in the village. My son! Always loafing about. Always in the inn. Last night drunk. Assaulted the landlady. My son! Arrested. My son!”
He turned away.
She cried, “Harry! What happened?”