"Cause I don't want'er—," growing more and more mellow, as the liquor went fuming to his head, already pretty heavily loaded with brandy and wine. "Where's the little rooster, I tell yer."
"In the streets, and he's too much like his father to ever come home, 'till he's gone after, and dragged in."
"Well, go and drag him in then, I'm goin' ter see 'im."
"I won't!" shrieked the woman, now fairly beside herself with rage; "go home to your lady wife, and take her my compliments; tell her that I turned you out."
John Burrill staggered to his feet, uttering a brutal oath.
"You'll turn me out, will you? You say won't to me; you are forgetting my training, Mrs. Nance; I'll teach you that John Burrill's yer master yet; go for the boy."
But the woman did not stir.
"You won't, eh!" clutching her fiercely, and shaking her violently, "now will you?"
"No, you brute."
"Then, take that, and that, and that!"