“Don't you hit her, you brute!” exclaimed his wife, springing in sudden anger to her feet.
“Oh, father, don't hit me—oh, please don't—I'll tell—I'll tell! I got eighteenpence,” cried the girl, shrinking back terrified.
He turned and went back to his seat, grinning at his success in getting at the truth. Presently he asked his wife if she had spent eighteenpence in bread.
“No, I didn't. I got a haddock for morning, and two ounces of tea, and a loaf, and a bundle of wood,” she returned sullenly.
After an interval of a couple of minutes he got up, went to the cupboard, and opened it.
“There's the haddy right enough,” he said. “No great things—cost you thrippence, I s'pose. Tea tuppence-ha'penny, and that's fivepence-ha'penny, and a ha'penny for wood, and tuppence-ha'penny for a loaf makes eightpence-ha'penny. There's more'n ninepence over, Margy, and all I want is a pint of beer and a screw. Threepence—come now.”
“I've nothing to give you,” she returned doggedly.
“Then what did you do with it? How much gin did you drink—eh?”
“As much as I could get,” she answered defiantly.
He looked at her, whistled and drummed, then got up and went out.