"Let go of me!" Cis demanded, in a voice that was not hers at all. Barber had hold of her arm. With a sudden twist she freed herself.
"Here!" Her stepfather seized her again, and jerked her to a place beside him. "And none o' y'r loud talk, d' y' understand?"
"Yes, I understand!" she answered defiantly, yet without lowering her voice. "But I don't care what you want! I'll speak the way I want to! I'll yell—Ee-e-e——"
But even as she began the shriek, one of his great hands grasped the whole lower half of her face, covering it, and stopping the cry.
The next moment she was gasping and struggling as she fought his hold. She tried to pull backward. She dragged at his hand as she circled him.
It was a strange contest, so quiet, yet so fierce. It was not like something that Johnnie was really seeing: it was like one of those thinks of his—a terrible one. Bewildered, fascinated, paralyzed, he watched, and the matches dropped, scattering, from his hands.
The contest was pitifully unequal. All at once the girl's strength gave out. Her knees bent under her. She swayed toward Big Tom, and would have fallen if he had not held her up—by that hand over her mouth as well as by the grasp he had kept on her elbow. Now those huge, tonglike arms of his caught her clear of the floor and half threw, half dropped, her upon the kitchen chair.
"You set there!" commanded Barber.
Too spent for speech, but still determined not to obey him, Cis tried to leave the chair, and drew herself partly up by grasping the table. But she could not stand, and sank back. At one corner of her mouth showed a trickle of blood, like a scarlet thread.
The sight of it brought Johnnie to her in an agony of concern. "Oh, Cis!" he implored.