Tessibel stepped to one side, but the squatter put himself in front of her, again.
"Now none of yer foolin'," he growled, and he added to his remarks a collection of sulphurous epithets.
"Sandy," commanded the young woman, still in her grand manner, "step out of my way! Right now! Do you hear?"
Unmoved, her drunken tormentor flung up his arms, hands open in assumed disgust.
"Well, hark to the way the squatter girl's talkin', will ye?" he sneered. "I'll take that outten ye, kid, afore I've had ye long. Where air yer brat?"
The brown eyes, responsive to his suggestion, glanced toward the house. There was Boy coming slowly up the little path toward her. He dearly enjoyed the rare occasions when visitors came, and his face lighted up when he saw the man talking to his mother.
"Boy, run back home," she called.
Sandy made a dash down the hill toward the child, shouting curses and commands to him.
"Wait, kid! Don't ye move! I want ye."
The young mother instantly flew after him. Her swift feet took her on and on, up to and past the squatter whose speed was impaired by his years of confinement and the whiskey he'd swallowed. Then, she flung herself in front of the child and held out her arms.