“Says that old iron screw’s his, granny.”
“What, that?” cried the old woman, making a snatch with her thin long-nailed finger at the piece of iron Tom held as far as he could from his adversary.
She was more successful than the lad had been, for she obtained possession of it, and hurriedly thrust it into some receptacle hidden by the folds of her dirty tea-leaf-coloured dress.
“Mine!” she cried, “mine! Who is he? Want to steal it?”
“Yes. D’yer hear? Be off out of our place, or I’ll soon let you know.”
“I shall not go,” cried Tom, who was now bubbling over with excitement. “You stole the iron from our place—from the mill last night.”
The old woman turned upon him furiously.
“The mill,” she cried; “who pulled the poor old mill down, and robbed poor people of their meal? No corn, no flour. I know who you are now. You belong to him yonder. I know you. Cursed all of you. I know him, with his wicked ways and sins and doings. Go away—go away!”
She raised her hands threateningly, after setting down the kettle; and Tom shrank back in dismay from an adversary with whom he could not cope.
“Not till he brings out the iron he came and stole,” cried Tom.