"Stop, Sandy! Wait!" she panted. "I'll talk to you. Let the baby go home."
The race which had flushed the girl's cheeks and deepened her breathing, left the fat squatter wind-broken and exhausted.
"Let 'im go, then," gasped Sandy.
"Go back, Boy dear," urged Tess.
Boy didn't move. He seemed mesmerized by the strangely white face of the drunken man.
"Mummy, come home, too," he hesitated.
"Yer mummy can't. Git out, ye beggar, afore I kick ye!" threatened Sandy.
His breathing was easier but the discomfort he felt aggravated his ugly mood. He reached forth one of his great arms and, seizing the child by the shoulder, threw him roughly to the ground. The little one, more frightened than hurt, cried loudly. His shrill shriek of terror reached the ears of the dwarf. Alarmed, Andy sprang to the window and looked out.
The scene on the lawn below petrified him. Tess was picking up the child, and standing over her, fists doubled menacingly, was—Lysander Letts. Andy thought the enraged squatter was going to kill her and Boy. Wholly forgetful of his own danger, he continued to watch.
His small boyish face was still at the pane, when Lysander looked up. Andy saw the upturned glance and flung himself back out of sight. Had Letts seen him? Impelled to look out again, he drew a long breath of relief. Tess and the child were slowly coming, hand in hand, toward the house, and the man they feared was making his way through the orchard.