Horace listened expectantly. Everett could have struck the man in the face, he hated him so deeply. He groaned mentally as he thought of Scraggy and her wild-eyed cat and of his endeavor to close her lips as to her relation to him. It was a great fear within him that soon his father would appear as his mother had. The time might come when this haughty man before him would have reason to look upon him with contempt. To make Horace understand his present power was the one thought that now dominated him.
With this in mind, he began to speak again:
"A man came to us with a complaint that you were keeping his children from him."
If Horace had received the blow the other longed to give, he could not have been more shocked.
"I believe his name is Cronk," went on Everett, taking a slip from his pocket; "yes, Lon Cronk."
Horace took his paper-knife from the table and twirled it in his fingers. His face had grown ashen white, his lips were set closely over his teeth.
"I have met this Cronk," he said in a low tone.
"So I understand. He told me that he had been at your home, and had demanded his children, and that you had refused to give them up."
"I did!" There was no lack of emphasis in the words.
"And you said that he could not have them unless he went to law for them."