The child stopped, and ruefully made its way to its relative, looking around several times toward the house, as if to appeal to some counter authority.
'Come, make haste!' pursued the man, 'or I shall go and fetch you. Move!'
The child advanced to within half a dozen paces of the steps, and then stood still, eyeing the man cautiously, and hugging the jug tight.
'Come on, you little beggar, come up close.'
The youngster kept a stolid silence, however, and did not budge. Suddenly its self-styled uncle leaned forward, swept out his arm, clutched hold of its little sunburnt wrist, and dragged it toward him.
'Why didn't you come when you were called?' he asked, running his disengaged hand into the infant's frowsy mop of hair, and shaking its head until it staggered. 'Why didn't you come, you unmannerly little brute, eh?—eh?—eh?' accompanying every interrogation with a renewed shake.
The child made no answer. It simply and vainly endeavored to twist its neck around under the man's grip, and transmit some call for succor to the house.
'Come, keep your head straight. Look at me, and answer me. What's in that jug? Don't lie.'
'Milk.'
'Who for?'