Owen had not been so much to blame. The miserable little cur had snapped at him, and he had kicked it away. Then, as it ran yelping along, it was too good a mark for a boy to miss. He shied a piece of oyster shell; but, as bad luck would have it, he missed the dog, and the missile bounded down to a basement window.
“I’ll put that lad in the ’form school this blissid week! A pore woman can’t take care o’ sich a lot o’ brats, an’ they fuller ’n an egg of diviltry. I’ll jist see—”
She began to hunt around for the end of a stout trunk-strap. Dil trembled in every limb. If Owny would only stay away! But he didn’t. He came up the stairs whistling gayly; for he had earned a quarter, and he was saving money to have a regular Christmas blow-out.
His mother fell on him. There was a tremendous battle. Owen kicked and scratched and swore, and his mother’s language was not over choice. He managed to wriggle away, and reached the door, crying out, as he sprang down the stairs, that he’d “niver darken the dure agin, if he lived a hundred years;” and added to it an imprecation that made Dil turn faint and cold.
Bess went into a hysteric.
“Drat the young un! Shet yer head, er you’ll get some, ye bag o’ bones! Ye shud a ben in yer grave long ago. Take her in t’other room, Dil. I can’t bide the sight uv her!”
Dil uttered not a word, though the room spun round. She poured her mother a cup of tea, and had a dish of nicely browned sausage, and some baked potatoes. Mrs. Quinn ate, and threatened dire things about Owny. Then she put on her shawl, throwing it over her head, which meant an hour or two or three at Mrs. MacBride’s, though she started to look for Owen.
Dil brought the wagon back, and nursed and soothed Bess.
“I wouldn’t ever come back, if I was Owny,” she said in her spasmodic tone, for the nervous fright was still strong upon her. “An’ if I had two good legs, we’d run away too. Dil, I think she’d jes’ be glad to have me die.”
Dilsey Quinn shuddered. Just a few months longer—