The blear-eyed, drunken scoundrel glared at the two seated figures, then laughed evilly as he cried,—
“Turned religious? Oho! oho! Like all the rest of your religious people, make a mantle—a regular down-to-your-feet ulster—of your religion to cover every blackness and filthiness of life.”
“Silence, you foul-mouthed blackguard!”
Tom Hammond’s lips were white with the indignation that filled him, as he flung his command to the man.
“Silence yourself, Tom Hammond!” bellowed the drunken scoundrel. “I know you,” he went on. “You’re a big bug now! Think no end of yourself, and of your messing paper. Perhaps you’ll say you came to invite me to join your staff, now that I’ve caught you here?”
His sneering tone changed to one of bitterest hate, as he turned to the white, trembling woman.
“You’re a beauty, ain’t you? Profess to turn saint; then, when you think I’m clear away, you receive visits from fine gentlemen! Gentlemen? bah! they’re——”
“Silence, you drunken, foul-mouthed beast!” again interrupted Tom Hammond.
There was something amazing in the command that rang in the indignant tones of his voice.
“Unless,” he went on, “you want to find yourself in the grip of the law.”