“Ta’e ’im up, ta’e ’im up, an’ birch ’im till ’is bloody back’s raw,” she screamed.
The thin policeman shook her off, and wanted to know what was the matter.
“I’ll smosh ’im like a rotten tater,” cried the woman, “if I can lay ’ands on ’im. ’E’s not fit ter live nowhere where there’s decent folks—the thievin’, brazen little devil——” thus she went on.
“But what’s up!” interrupted the thin constable, “what’s up wi’ ’im?”
“Up—it’s ’im as ’is up, an’ let ’im wait till I get ’im down. A crafty little——”
Sam, seeing her look at him, distorted his honest features, and overheated her wrath, till Lettie and Emily trembled with dismay.
The mother’s head appeared at the bedroom window. She slid the sash back, and craned out, vainly trying to look over the gutter below the slates. She was even more dishevelled than usual, and the tears had dried on her pale face. She stretched further out, clinging to the window frame and to the gutter overhead, till I was afraid she would come down with a crash.
The men, squatting on their heels against the wall of the ashpit, laughed, saying:
“Nab ’im, Poll—can ter see ’m—clawk ’im!” and then the pitiful voice of the woman was heard crying: “Come thy ways down, my duckie, come on—on’y come ter thy mother—they shanna touch thee. Du thy mother’s biddin’, now—Sam—Sam—Sam!” her voice rose higher and higher.
“Sammy, Sammy, go to thy mammy,” jeered the wits below.