“And who could expect him to bear a good one?” fired Tod. “If I were turned out like a dog, should I care what I did? No! Old Westerbrook and that precious wife of his ought to be kicked. As to Gisby, the sneak, hanging would be too good for him.”
“Don’t, Joseph.”
“Don’t!” retorted Tod. “But I do. They deserve all the abuse that can be given them. I can see her game. She wants Westerbrook to leave the property to her: that’s the beginning and the end of it; and to cut off poor Fred with a shilling.”
“Of course we are all sorry for Fred, Joseph,” resumed the mother. “Very sorry. I know I am. But he need not do reckless things, and lose his good name.”
“Bother his good name!” cried Tod. “Look at their interference about Edna Blake. That news came out when we were at home at Midsummer. Edna is as good as they are.”
“It is a hopeless case, I fear, Joseph. Discarded by his uncle, all his prospects are at an end. He has been all on the wrong track lately, and done many a sad thing.”
“I don’t care what he has done. He has been driven to it. And I’ll stand up for him through thick and thin.”
Tod flung out of the room with the last words. It was just like him, putting himself into a way for nothing. It was like somebody else too—his father. I began telling Mrs. Todhetley of the chants and hymns I had thought of, asking her if they would do.
“None could be better, Johnny. And I only wish you might play for us always.”
A fine commotion arose next morning. We were at breakfast, when Thomas came in to say old Jones, the constable, wanted to see the Squire immediately. Old Jones was bade to enter; he appeared all on the shake, and his face as white as a sheet. There had been murder done in the night, he said. Master Fred Westerbrook had shot Gisby: and he had come to get a warrant signed for Fred’s apprehension.