Thus things went on for many a day from bad to worse. Bad as things had been in former years, it seemed as if the profoundest depth of sin and misery had not yet been fathomed by these unhappy mutineers.
In all these doings, it would have gone hard with the poor women and children if Adams and Young had not increased in their kindness and consideration for them, as the other two men became more savage and tyrannical.
At last matters came to such a crisis that it became once more a matter of discussion with Young and Adams whether they should not destroy the machinery by which the spirits were made, and it is probable that they might have done this, if events had not occurred which rendered the act unnecessary.
One day William McCoy was proceeding with a very uncertain step along the winding footpath that led to his house up in the mountain. The man’s face worked convulsively, and it seemed as if terrible thoughts filled his brain. Muttering to himself as he staggered along, he suddenly met his own son, who had grown apace by that time, being nearly seven years of age. Both father and son stopped abruptly, and looked intently at each other.
“What brings you here?” demanded the father, with a look of as much dignity as it was in his power to assume.
The poor boy hesitated, and looked frightened. His natural spirit of fun and frolic seemed of late to have forsaken him.
“What are ’ee afraid of?” roared McCoy, who had not quite recovered from his last fit of delirium tremens. “Why don’t ’ee speak?”
“Mother’s not well,” said Daniel, softly; “she bid me come and tell you.”
“What’s that to me?” cried McCoy, savagely. “Come here, Dan.” He lowered his tone, and held out his hand, but the poor boy was afraid to approach.
Uttering a low growl, the father made a rush at him, stumbled over a tree-root, and fell heavily to the earth. Little Dan darted into the bush, and fled home.