“I—I—ain’t scared uv him!” said Tom.
“You stay right here now and don’t be foolish, and me an’ you’ll go over an’ have a cup o’ coffee.”
Just then one of the men emerged bearing in one arm the portrait of the late Mrs. Slade and in the other hand Bill Slade’s battered but trusty beer can. The portrait he laid face up on the table and set the can on it.
Perhaps it is expecting too much to assume that a city marshal would have any sense of the fitness of things, but it was an unfortunate moment to make such a mistake. As Mrs. O’Connor lifted the pail a dirty ring remained on the face of the portrait.
“D’yer see wot yer done?” shrieked Tom, rushing at the marshal. “D’yer see wot yer done?”
There was no stopping him. With a stream of profanity he rushed at the offending marshal, grabbing him by the neck, and the man’s head shook and swayed as if it were in the grip of a mad dog.
It was in vain that poor Mrs. O’Connor attempted to intercede, catching hold of the infuriated boy and calling,
“Oh, Tommy, for the dear Lord’s sake, stop and listen to me!”
Tom did not even hear.
The marshal, his face red and his eyes staring, went down into the mud of Barrel Alley and the savage, merciless pounding of his face could be heard across the way.