he looked forth. On the stairs just above him Mrs. Hughs,
clasping her baby with one arm, was holding the other out at full length
between herself and Hughs. He heard the latter say: "You've drove me to
it; I'll do a swing for you!" Mrs. Hughs' thin body brushed past into
his room; blood was dripping from her wrist. Creed saw that Hughs had
his bayonet in his hand. With all his might he called out: "Ye ought to
be ashamed of yourself!" raising the poker to a position of defence. At
this moment--more really dangerous than any he had ever known--it was
remarkable that he instinctively opposed to it his most ordinary turns of
speech. It was as though the extravagance of this un-English violence
had roused in him the full measure of a native moderation. The sight of
the naked steel deeply disgusted him; he uttered a long sentence. What
did Hughs call this--disgracin' of the house at this time in the mornin'?
Where was he brought up? Call 'imself a soldier, attackin' of old men
and women in this way? He ought to be ashamed!

While these words were issuing between the yellow stumps of teeth in that
withered mouth, Hughs stood silent, the back of his arm covering his
eyes. Voices and a heavy tread were heard. Distinguishing in that tread
the advancing footsteps of the Law, Creed said: "You attack me if you
dare!"

Hughs dropped his arm. His short, dark face had a desperate look, as of
a caged rat; his eyes were everywhere at once.

"All right, daddy," he said; "I won't hurt you. She's drove my head all
wrong again. Catch hold o' this; I can't trust myself." He held out the
bayonet.

"Westminister" took it gingerly in his shaking hand.

"To use a thing like that!" he said. "An' call yourself an Englishman!
I'll ketch me death standin' here, I will."

Hughs made no answer leaning against the wall. The old butler regarded
him severely. He did not take a wide or philosophic view of him, as a
tortured human being, driven by the whips of passion in his dark blood; a
creature whose moral nature was the warped, stunted tree his life had
made it; a poor devil half destroyed by drink and by his wound. The old
butler took a more single-minded and old-fashioned line. 'Ketch 'old of
'im!' he thought. 'With these low fellers there's nothin' else to be
done. Ketch 'old of 'im until he squeals.'

Nodding his ancient head, he said:

"Here's an orficer. I shan't speak for yer; you deserves all you'll get,
and