Nan, in the shop, heard from the beginning, and trembled. Her impulse to interfere she checked as she might, for she well knew that would worsen Bessy’s plight; but it was choking hard.
In the midst Johnny burst in from the street, whistling. “Why, mother,” he said, “what’s up? Ill? You look—what’s that?”
“No—nothing, Johnny. Don’t go in. I’ll go. Stay—”
But there was a cry and a noise of falling. Johnny flung open the parlour door and stood aghast.
. . . Butson pushed the girl forward. “Go an’ earn yer livin’, y’ idle slut! Get out o’ this!”
For a second Johnny stared. Then he reached Butson at a spring and knocked him backward with a swing of his right fist. The crutch lay behind the man’s heels and tripped him, so that he sat backward on the floor, mightily astonished. Johnny snatched the poker and waved it close about Butson’s head.
“Don’t you move!” he cried, white with passion. “Don’t you try to get up, or I’ll beat your head in!”
Mr. Butson raised his arm to save his skull, but caught a blow across the bone that sent it numb to his side.
“Johnny—don’t!” cried Nan, snatching at his arm. “O Henry! pray don’t—”
“Get away, mother,” said Johnny, “or I’ll have to hit his head! You blackguard coward! You—you’re a meaner hound even than I took you for! You’ll touch my sister—a lame girl—will you?” At the thought he struck, but again Nan caught at him, and only Mr. Butson’s shoulder suffered.