“Ain’t ye ashamed o’ yerself? Ain’t it mean o’ ye to make up to a gal like Betty?” His voice was low and measured.
“What’s it your business, anyhow?” Carleton gasped between his breaths, shaking himself like a tousled dog. “What are you putting on frills about her for, anyhow? She’s nothing to you, if she is your wife. I guess I know what I’m doing.”
Caleb’s fingers grew hard and rigid as claws.
“So do I know what ye’re a-doin’. Ye’d drag that child down an’ stomp on her, if ye could. Ye’d make a thing of her,”—the words came with a hiss,—“you—you—callin’ yerself a man!”
“Why don’t you take care of her, then?” snarled Carleton, with an assumed air of composure, as he adjusted his collar and cuffs.
“That’s what I’m here for; that’s why I follered ye; there ain’t a night since it begun to git dark I ain’t watched her home. She’s not yourn; she’s mine. Look at me,”—Caleb stepped closer and raised his clinched fist. “If ever ye speak to her agin, so help me God, I will kill ye!”
With one swing of his arm he threw the superintendent out of his way, and strode up the street.
Carleton staggered from the blow, and would have fallen but for the wall of the fish-house. For a moment he stood in the road looking after Caleb’s retreating figure. Then, with a forced bravado in his voice, he called out in the darkness, “If you think so damn much of her, why don’t you take her home?” and slunk away toward the village.
The old man did not turn. If he heard, he made no sign. He walked on, with his head down, his eyes on the road. As he passed Captain Joe’s he loitered at the gate until he saw the light flash up in Betty’s bedroom; then he kept on to his own cabin.