"Thet's little Newt," shouted the mother, bending her lips close to his ear. The old man sat foolishly blinking for a time as his wandering thoughts came back to a focus.
Finally, he brandished his long staff and stormed weakly.
"Ye hadn't oughter suffered yeself ter be penitentiaried. In my day no Spooner wouldn't 'a' done hit. Ye air the fust one thet's ever wore stripes...."
"I wouldn't of gone thar nuther, ef my own kin hed a-stood by me," blazed the boy with an evil glitter in his eye.
"Don't pay him no mind, Newt," hastily admonished his mother; "he hain't noways responsible. He's plumb fitty."
"Why the hell don't he die?" demanded the youth, gazing down contemptuously on the withered and decaying figure.
"I'm kinder tuckered out," he added a moment later. "I reckon I'll lay down."
Such was Newt Spooner's home-coming.