“What do you mean by that, John?”
“You know well enough what I mean. You don’t want him to give me that money.”
Mrs. Trafton plucked up courage enough to say: “You ought not to ask for it, John.”
“Why shouldn’t I ask for it?” he demanded, pounding forcibly on the table.
“Because he means to spend it for things we need and you want it to spend at the tavern.”
“There you are again—always twitting me because, after exposing myself to storm and the dangers of the sea, I take a little something to warm me up and make me comfortable.”
To hear John Trafton’s tone one might think him a grievously injured man.
“For two years, John Trafton, you have spent three-fourths of your earnings at the tavern,” said his wife quietly. “You have left me to suffer want and privation that you might indulge your appetite for drink.”
“You seem to be alive still,” he said with an ugly sneer. “You don’t seem to have starved.”
“I might have done so but for Robert. He has brought me fish and bought groceries with what little money he could earn in various ways.”