“What cheer, myte?” he said with an air of unconcern. “Is it trecks ye want, sir? Here ye are then,” and he threw a pack of cards at John's feet.
“It's that gel o' yawn that's done this,” said the woman.
“So it's a got-up thing, is it?” said Charlie, and stepping to the counter, he took up a drinking-glass, broke it at the rim; and holding its jagged edges outward, turned to use it as a weapon.
John Storm had not yet spoken, but a magnetic instinct warned him. He whistled, and the dog bounded down. The young man threw his broken glass on the floor and cried to the keeper of the house: “Don't stir, you! First you know, the beast will be at yer throat!”
Hearing Charlie's voice, Aggie was creeping down the stairs. “Charlie!” she cried. Charlie threw open his coat, stuck his fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat, said in a voice of hatred, passion, and rage, “Go and pawn yourself!” and then swaggered out at the back door. The keeper made show of following, but John Storm called on him to stop. The man looked at the dog and obeyed. “Wot d'ye want o' me?” he said.
“I want this girl's baby. That's the first thing I want. I'll tell you the rest afterward.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?” The man's grimace was frightful.
“It's gone, sir. We've lost it,” said the woman, with a hideous expression.
“That story will not pass with me, my good woman. Go upstairs and unlock the door! You too, my man, go on!”
A minute later they were in a bedroom above. Three neglected children lay asleep on bundles of rags. One of twelve months' old was in a wicker cradle, one of three years was in a wooden cot, and a younger child was in a bed. Aggie had come up behind, and stood by the door trembling and weeping.