"I tried my best to be a good father to Robbie," Durkin said, lowering his voice in mock humility. "You can't claim I didn't try. But there comes a time when discipline's needed. No punishment's severe enough for a boy who'd like to see his own father roasted like a chestnut in a red-hot fire."
A sudden, terrible anger flared in his eyes. "No punishment's bad enough. But a strong birch switch laid on heavy may do some good."
He stared at Emily, his neck arched in chicken-hawk fashion. "I can't punish you the way I'm going to punish Robbie," he said. "You're too young—just a baby. But when a baby does wrong you've got to be stern. That's kindness."
Durkin bent abruptly, gripped his stepdaughter by the elbow, and lifted her to her feet. "A few hours without your supper in the dark—"
"Mommy!" Emily shrieked. "Mommy, Mommy!"
The kitchen door flew open, and Helen Durkin came running out of the house, her eyes wide with fright. She went up to her husband, and started tugging at his wrists.
"Let them go!" she cried. "Robbie hasn't done anything. I was watching every minute."
"He hasn't, eh?" Durkin glared at her. "He'd like to see me hanging from a rafter. Give him a piece of rope, and he'd hang me in effigy."
"He wouldn't. Why do you say a thing like that? You must be out of your mind, Will Durkin!"
"He would, I tell you. He's already done something just as bad. He's got to learn respect, and I'm going to give him the thrashing of his life."