Talk she did and fast; and under her eloquence Bonny-Gay became quite the most wonderful child in the world:
“The beautifullest, the kindest, the friendliest that ever lived. It didn’t ’pear to make a mite of difference that she was all so fixed up in her clothes; she played games as lively as the next one. She hung on to the Maypole ropes near as long as I did, and if I’d known what was coming I’d have dropped off quick and let her win the count. And my! how she did enjoy her dinner off my loaf! To see her little white hands hold it up to her lips and see her just nibble, nibble—Why, mother Bump! ’Twould have done your heart good!”
“Eat your dinner, did she? Wish to goodness it had choked her!” growled William Bump, from the doorstep.
“Why, father! W-h-y!” gasped Mary Jane, amazed.
The man replied only by whistling Max to him, and by stroking the dog’s head when the whistle had been obeyed.
But when the cripple had reached that part of her story descriptive of the final accident, the father spoke again and this time with even a more vindictive earnestness than before.
“Broke her leg, did it? Glad of it. Never was gladder of anything in all my life. Hope she’ll suffer a lot. Hope—What better is she, his little girl, than you, my Mary Jane? Glad there is something that evens matters up. I hope his heart’ll ache till it comes as near breakin’ as mine—every time I look at your poor crooked shoulders, you poor miserable child! So I do!”
Both Mrs. Bump and Mary Jane were aghast at the awfulness of this desire. Even the baby had paused open-mouthed and silent, as if he, too, could comprehend the dreadful words and be shocked by them. Only Max remained undisturbed, even nestled the closer to the blue-shirted man, who in some manner reminded him of his old master, Mr. Weems.
Then Mrs. Bump found her voice, and though she was a loyal wife she did not hesitate in this emergency to give her husband a very indignant reproof. So indignant, in fact, that she forgot the caution of many years, and with her hand on William’s shoulder, demanded fiercely:
“You say that, you? You! You dare to rejoice in the misfortunes of others when it was by your own fault—your own fault, William Bump!—that our poor lass sits yonder a cripple for life. When I left her in your care that I might go and intercede for you to be given a fresh trial at the works, what was it but that you loved the drink better than the child? and left her on the high ledge while you slept—a human log! Yet you were sorry enough afterwards and you should take shame to yourself for your wickedness. It’s the drink again that’s in you, this day; and that has lost you another job and turned your once good heart into a cruel beast’s! So that is what I think of you, and my—”