"God didn't let it break, 'cos we wanted the biscuits," said Tiny confidently; "yer see, daddy, He ain't forgot us, though Bermuda Point is a long way from anywhere."
The biscuits lasted them for some time, for as the season advanced Coomber was able to sell some of the wild ducks he shot, and so potatoes, and flour, and bread could be brought at Fellness again. If the fisherman could only have believed that whisky was not as necessary as bread, they might have suffered less privation; but every time he got a little money for his wild fowl, the bottle had to be replenished, even though he took home but half the quantity of bread that was needed; and so Tiny sometimes was heard to wish that God would always send them biscuits in a tub, and then daddy couldn't drink the stuff that made him so cross.
Mrs. Coomber smiled and sighed as she heard Tiny whisper this to Dick. She, too, had often wished something similar—or, at least, that her husband could do without whisky. Now, as the supply of wild fowl steadily increased, he came home more sullen than ever. His return from Fellness grew to be a dread even to Tiny at last; and she and Dick used to creep off to bed just before the time he was expected to return, leaving Bob and Tom to bear the brunt of whatever storm might follow.
He seldom noticed their absence, until one night, when, having drunk rather more than usual, he was very cross on coming in, and evidently on the look-out for something to make a quarrel over.
"Where's Dick and the gal?" he said, as he looked round the little kitchen, after flinging himself into a chair.
"They're gone to bed," said his wife, timidly, not venturing to look up from her work.
"Then tell 'em to get up."
"I—I dunno whether it 'ud be good for Tiny," faltered the poor woman; "she's got a cold now, and—and——"
"Are you going to call 'em up, or shall I go and lug 'em out of bed?" demanded the angry, tipsy man.
"But, Coomber," began his wife.