"She—she—yes."
"A-a-ah!" The longshoreman placed the books atop the olive-drab hat, crushing it flat with their weight.
"Oh! Oh, don't hurt 'em!" pleaded Johnnie. He put out a hand.
"Oh, I won't hurt 'em," answered Big Tom. But his tone was far from reassuring.
"I won't ever read 'em 'cept nights," promised the boy. "Honest, Mister Barber! And y' know y' like me t' read good. When—when Mister Maloney was here, why, y' liked it. And y' can lock 'em all away in the bedroom if y' don't b'lieve me!"
Big Tom leered down at him. "Oh, I'll lock 'em up, all right," he said. "I'll do it up so brown that there won't be no more danger o' this scout business 'round the place, and no more readin'." With that, he took up both the books and the suit and turned.
At the same moment Cis and Johnnie understood what was impending—the same terrible moment; and they cried out together, the one in renewed anger, the other in mortal pain:
"NO!"
For Barber had turned—to the stove.
Johnnie rushed to the longshoreman and again clung to him, weeping, pleading, promising, asking to be whipped—oh, anything but that his treasures be destroyed. And at the table, Cis wept, too, and threatened, calling for help, striving to divert Big Tom from his purpose, trying to lash him into a rage against herself.