“Lord, I give it 'im! Lord, I give it 'im!
“He's living, I reckon, but that's about all 'e is doing. And then, without a word to 'er, I come away, and here I am, a free man ... and to-morrer marning I go out to tramp the world a bit—and to come back one day when she wants me.”
And then in Peter there suddenly leapt to life a sense of battle, of glorious combat and conflict.
As he stood there in the bare kitchen—he and Stephen there under the light of the jumping candle—with the rain beating on the panes, the trees of the wood bending to the wind, he was seized, exalted, transformed with a sense of the vigour, the adventure, the surprising energy of life.
“Stephen! Stephen!” he cried. “It's glorious! By God! I wish I'd been there!”
Stephen caught him by the arm and held him. The old dog came from under the table and wagged his tail.
“Bless my soul,” said Stephen, looking at him, “all these weeks I've been forgetting him. I've been in a kind of dream, boy—a kind o' dream. Why didn't I 'it 'im before? Lord, why didn't I 'it 'im before!”
Peter at the word thought of his mother.
“Yes,” he thought, with clenched teeth, “I'll go for them!”