"My Old Sal. He be gone. Mebbe he got stugged, and some old fox come along and took 'en," said Mary.
"Stugged was he? I saw 'en stugged," Annie shouted. "Came across Barton court, he did, and the man took 'en, and twisted the neck of 'en, and flung 'en in the vuzz. 'He be Mary's Old Sal,' I ses, but he only swore."
Mary spat upon her hands.
"He picked up a stick, and hit me on the ear, me, a free woman. I ses to 'en avore, 'If yew lifts your arm at me, Mary knows.'"
"I be coming," said Mary.
"Me tu," said Peter.
There was much for Mary to avenge. Pendoggat had beaten her brother, had terrified Boodles, to say nothing of his attempt to rob her, and now Mary knew he had killed the old goose. She had never ceased to mourn for Old Sal; and Pendoggat had destroyed the leader of her flock out of sheer malice and cruelty. The spirit of the lawless Gubbings entered into Mary as she picked up her staff and made for the door, while Peter shambled after her, a philosopher no longer, but a savage like herself.
But Boodles was crying: "Don't leave me, Mary. The shadows will get big and thick and take hold of me."
"Aw, don't ye be soft, maid," cried Annie.
"Bide here, my dear. Us will lock ye in, and no one shan't touch ye," said Mary.