“He’s always doing it now,” Bessy sobbed. “And wanting more money. I’d a good mind to tell you before, but—but—”
“Beaten mother!” The room swam before Johnny’s eyes. “Why—”
Nan rose to close the door. “No, Johnny,” she said meekly. “I’m a bit upset, but don’t let it upset you. Don’t you—”
“What’s the matter with your leg? You’re limping!”
“He kicked her! I saw him kick at her ankle!” Bessy burst out, pouring forth the tale unrestrained. “I tried to stop him and—and—”
“And then he hit you?” asked Johnny, not so white in the cheeks now, but whiter than ever about the mouth.
“Yes; but it was mother most!” and Bessy wept afresh.
Perhaps his evenings of disappointment had chastened Johnny’s impatience. He knew that the man was out of reach now, and he forced his fury down. In ten minutes he knew the whole thing, between Bessy’s outpourings and Nan’s tearful admissions.
“When is he coming back?”
They did not know—probably he would be late, as usual. “But don’t go doing anything hasty, Johnny,” Nan implored; “I’m so afraid of you doing something rash! It’s not much, really—I’m a bit upset, but—”