Mr Sparks was much nettled by the first part of Mrs Dashwood’s speech. The last part put him in a towering passion. He started up, but had the wisdom to restrain himself to some extent.
“Perhaps,” he said, between his teeth, “you can’t prevent it, missis.”
“Perhaps not, but I shall try.”
At that moment, Master Fred Crashington chanced to stumble in his energetic attempts to extinguish the fire in the cupboard, which the Rosebud assured him, in excited tones, was “not out yit; gittin’ wus an’ wus!” In falling, the old-fashioned helmet flew off, and the comb of it hit Mr Sparks a severe blow on the shin-bone. In the heat of the moment he dealt Fred a violent slap on the cheek, which sent him tumbling and howling on the floor. At that moment the door opened and Joe Dashwood entered.
He had heard the noise before entering, and now stood with a stern frown on his face as he gazed at his wife and her visitor.
“Did you do that?” he demanded of Sparks, pointing to the little boy.
“He did, Joe,” said Mary; “but—”
Joe waited for no more. He seized Mr Sparks by the nape of the neck with a grip that almost choked him—strong though he was—and thrust him out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, where he gave him a final kick, and shut the door.
“Oh, dear Joe!” exclaimed Mary, on his return, “you shouldn’t have been so violent to ’im.”
“W’y not, Molly? Surely you would not have me stand by and look on while he insulted you and knocked down the boy?”