The boy had succeeded in getting away, but the unequal struggle was soon at an end, and Mrs. Crowley was struck to the floor by a heavy blow.
The father dragged the terror-stricken little fellow from behind the bed.
"Come! Damn you! I'm not done yet! I'll teach you to be scared of your dad and to yell like an idiot when I come into my own house," and the blows fell rapidly.
On the little hands when they were raised to protect the head, on the head when the hands dropped down in pain, on the legs when the body twisted in agony, on the back when the body bent to shield the legs, and the childish voice broke through the screams at intervals:
"What for? Oh, what for?"
Mrs. Crowley looked around the room for something with which to fight the man. She seized an iron frying-pan and struck him with all the force she could summon, but the blow was insufficient.
He loosed the child only long enough to push his wife violently to the wall and choke her until she gasped and grew dizzy, adding a couple of blows as a finishing touch, and after tossing her weapon from the window again turned his attention to the child.
"Not done yet! No! Not done! Take this—and this—and this," and heavy blows sounded.
"Oh, papa! tell me what for, and I'll never, never do it any more. Please, papa, what for?" and the child raised his terror-stricken face to his father's, but the brute struck the little upturned face.