"Mamma! O mamma! Hold me tight! Don't let him get me! O mamma! mamma! mamma!" The mother held the child close, but the man had seized him.
They struggled for a minute—a madman's strength and a devil's cunning against a mother's love—unequal struggle!
The man—a demon now—had the child.
He cast his eye around the room and picked up a knotty piece of wood. The boy pulled frantically back toward his mother, trembling and screaming, but the die was cast.
A volley of oaths burst from the drunken fiend's lips.
"Not much this time! No help now, till I'm done with you. Damn you! Stand up," and he gave the boy a blow that caused him to twist with pain, but he steadied his voice to ask:
"What for, papa? What for?" But the words were lost in screams, for the blows kept falling.
Mrs. Crowley rushed up and caught his uplifted arm.
"You will kill the child! You are mad. Help! Somebody help!" she cried; but no help came. Drunken rows are a part of our civilization.