At his words the girl shrieked again, that long agonizing terrible shriek that brought more neighbors.
“It was an accident,” whispered the Fuller boy thickly.
“It wouldn’t have been an accident if you’d behaved yourself and cut out this coming home drunk.”
The woman picked up the girl and got her to the sofa. Over and over she kept moaning: “My baby! My only, only, little baby!”
The place filled with neighbors. After a while came Doctor Johnson—who was our coroner—and Mike Hogan, our chief of police.
Mike was at a loss whether to arrest the father or not. Sam dispelled his doubts.
“When the boy comes to himself and gets the stuff out of his brain, he’ll feel bad enough, Mike,” the fatherly old editor said. “The memory of it will be enough punishment. After all, he didn’t do it intentionally.”
“He’s no good, sorr,” stormed Mike, indicating the young father while he grew husky-throated at the pathos of the little mother’s grief.
“Yes, he is, Mike. This is really Dick Fuller’s—his father’s—fault. He shouldn’t ever have left the lad ten thousand dollars and no balance-wheel. Let these two children alone. It’s for them to settle between themselves. Jack’s got the Fuller blood in him from away back; and I think this will bring out his manhood. It’s a fearful price for a young father to have to pay, Mike. But maybe, after all, it’s for the best.”
The neighbors left the boy and girl to their tragedy.