“Hit’s Champ fer his pappy”
Steve’s first mad impulse was to snatch up the wronged child, and, if necessary, face the half-drunken men in battle. But this would be worse than useless his second sober thought told him, for there stood Mirandy looking carelessly on from the kitchen door behind. The child was doubtless hers, and the father was taking part in the revolting deed! What could he do? He knew they would brook no interference.
With hard-won self-control he stepped upon the threshold, courteously lifted his hat and bade them “Good-evening.”
Instantly the men turned and pistols clicked, for they thought him a revenue officer; but Mirandy, looking into his still boyish face which had caught the light, while his unfamiliar figure was in shadow, exclaimed:
“Don’t shoot! Hit’s Steve, my little buddie Steve!” And she stepped across the room to him in a way which showed she was capable of being stirred into action sometimes.
The men looked uncertain, but Mirandy’s husband, peering into Steve’s face a moment, said:
“Yes, that’s right, hit’s Steve Langly, though I’d 144 nuver knowed ye in the world,” and the other men dropped back.
The child in the centre of the room looked about with dull eyes, then dropped to the floor in a pitiful little drunken heap.