"I will not use it if you do. We have not the money to waste on luxuries. A child will sleep as well in this as in a painted cradle."
All at once, Anthony flushed to the roots of his hair. A thought had struck him, that if he bought a new cradle he must do so with his wife's money. He had nothing of his own. He was her pensioner. There stood at his side an old rusty bar of iron; in his anger and disgust he grasped this, raised it, and brought it down on the cradle, breaking down its side.
"Anthony!" exclaimed Urith. "Anthony! you would not have done that had any love, any respect remained in your heart for me. You would have loved the little crib in which I was laid, if you loved me."
He did not answer her. Ashamed at his own conduct, embittered at her opposition to his wishes, discontented with his lot, he left the garret and descended the stairs.
On reaching the hall, he found Solomon Gibbs there; he had been out in the rain, and had come in very wet. His face was red and moist, proclaiming that he had been drinking, but he was not intoxicated, only hilarious. He had cast his hat on the table, a broad-brimmed felt hat that had absorbed the rain like a sponge, and was now giving it forth in a stream that made a puddle on the table and ran over the side, dripped on to a bench, and having formed a slop there fell again to the floor, there producing another pool. The water ran off Uncle Sol's dress and oozed from his boots that were rent, and had admitted water within, which now spirited forth from the gaps at every step. Solomon had taken down a single-stick, with basket handle, from the wall, and was making passes, wards, and blows in the air at an imaginary opponent, and, as he delivered his strokes, he trilled forth snatches of song:—
I'm a hearty good fellow, as most men opine.
Then he whacked from right to left—
So fill up your bumpers, and pass round the wine,
Singing, Tol-de-rol-lol-de-rol.
He fell to the ward.