“Jim, why are youse about here with that dirty face? Seems to me youse might have some thought for me. Now, get out of here and don’t come again until it can be clean.”
“He’s gone back on me,” said Jim, pointing his finger to the library door.
“Glad of it,” said the woman; “you are both as bad as you can be. I hope you will find your way to jail for being so mean to our little girl when she was small. If she were not an angel she would not let any of you people in the house.”
“Oh, wouldn’t she?” cried he. “Well, she’d better not get too flip, for Mr. Benson runs this house.”
“Who said he did?” asked the Irishwoman, her blue eyes fastening upon the man keenly.
“He did,” replied Jim, looking toward Benson’s door.
Biddy muttered something about things going topsy turvy and that she would tell Nellie her mind, and Jim walked out.
He slouched along the street with his hands in his pockets. His idea was to think of some way he could get even with Benson without running any risk himself.
One afternoon Nellie was sitting writing her daily letter to Tom. Her mind had left the sheet before her, and with her eyes fixed upon the ivy-covered church opposite she tried to weave a day dream which would bring her happiness. How many weary months had passed since her Tom had gone to prison, and each day her cousin became more insufferable and she hated him more and more. He had constantly persecuted her with his attentions.