“Yes,” said Mr. Briggles rather doubtfully. “Yes! I am the President of the Child Rescue Society, an organization incorporated to rescue ill-cared-for children, placing them in good homes—”
“Buddy,” said Booge roughly, “you go into that boat And you stay there. Understand?”
The child did as he was told. Booge's tone was one he had never heard the tramp use, and it frightened him.
“It has come to my attention,” said Mr. Briggles, “that there is a child here. You will admit this is no place for a tender little child. You may do your best for him but the influence of a good home must be sadly lacking in such a place. In fact, I have an order from the court—”
He began unbuttoning his ulster.
“I bet you have!” said Booge genially. “So, if you want to, you can sit right down on that bank there and read it. And if it's in po'try you can sing it. And if you can't sing, and you hang 'round here for half an hour, I'll come out and sing it for you. Just now I've got to go in and sing my scales.” He boosted himself to the deck of the shanty-boat and went inside, closing and locking the door. In a moment Mr. Briggles, out in the cold, heard Booge burst into song:
Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby,
Go tell the little baby he can't go out to-day;
Go tell the little baby, the baby, the baby,
Go tell the little baby old Briggles needn't stay.
Mr. Briggles stood holding the court order in his hand. Armed with the law, he had every advantage on his side. He clambered up the bank and stepped to the deck of the shanty-boat. He rapped sharply on the door. “Mr. Lane, open this door!” he ordered. The door opened with unexpected suddenness and Booge threw his arms around Mr. Briggles and lifted him from his feet. He drew him forward as if to hug him, and then, with a mighty out-thrust of his arms, cast him bodily off the deck. Mr. Briggles fell full on the newly constructed wagon, and there was a crash of breaking wood. Booge came to the edge of the deck and looked down at him. The man was wedged into the rough wagon box, his feet and legs hanging over. He was bleeding at the nose, and his face was rather scratched. He was white with fear or anger. Booge laughed.
“I owed you that,” he rumbled. “I owed you that since the day you married me. And now I'll give you what I owe you for coming after this boy.”
He jumped down from the deck, and Mr. Briggles struggled to release himself from the wagon-box. He was caught fast. He kicked violently, and Booge grinned. If he had intended punishing the interloper further, he changed his mind. The lake lay wide and smooth, with only a pile of snow here and there, and Booge grasped the damaged wagon and pushed it. Like a sled it slid along on its broken wheels, and Booge ran, gathering speed as he ran, until, with a last push, he sent the wagon and Mr. Briggles skimming alone over the glassy surface of the lake toward the road. Then he went into the shanty-boat and closed and locked the door.