Once, possibly, Billy’s mother might have been a handsome and even attractive woman, but drink had defaced whatever beauty she once had, and had degraded her terribly, as it always does, both in body and mind.
“Billy has been badly hurt,” I said, “and we thought you ought to come.”
“Who hurt him?” she demanded.
There was no sympathy or even concern in her tone. She spoke like a person to whom all the world is an enemy, in league to do her wrong.
“There was a struggle,” I said. “A man was hitting Mr Smith—”
“Mr Smith!” she exclaimed, fiercely; “who’s he—who’s Mr Smith?”
“Why, my friend who sometimes goes to see you in the court.”
“Oh!” said she, with a contemptuous laugh, “that fool!”
“Some one was striking him, and Billy put himself between them, and was badly hurt.”
“Well, what’s come to him? Is he dead, or what?” demanded the woman.