Maggie, however, interposed opportunely.
“Did yo' feyther beat yo' last night?” she inquired in a low voice; and there was a shade of anxiety in the soft brown eyes.
“Nay,” the boy answered; “he was a-goin' to, but he never did. Drunk,” he added in explanation.
“What was he goin' to beat yo' for, David?” asked Mrs. Moore.
“What for? Why, for the fun o't—to see me squiggle,” the boy replied, and laughed bitterly.
“Yo' shouldna speak so o' your dad, David,” reproved the other as severely as was in her nature.
“Dad! a fine dad! I'd dad him an I'd the chance,” the boy muttered beneath his breath. Then, to turn the conversation:
“Us should be startin', Maggie,” he said, and going to the door. “Bob! Owd Bob, lad! Ar't coomin' along?” he called.
The gray dog came springing up like an antelope, and the three started off for school together.
Mrs. Moore stood in the doorway, holding Andrew by the hand, and watched the departing trio.