his mother, trembling and
screaming, but the die was cast.

A volley of oaths burst from the drunken fiend's lips.

"Not much this time! No help now, till I'm done with you. Damn you!
Stand up," and he gave the boy a blow that caused him to twist with
pain, but he steadied his voice to ask:

"What for, papa? What for?" But the words were lost in screams, for the
blows kept falling.

Mrs. Crowley rushed up and caught his uplifted arm.

"You will kill the child! You are mad. Help! Somebody help!" she cried;
but no help came. Drunken rows are a part of our civilization.

The boy had succeeded in getting away, but the unequal struggle was soon
at an end, and Mrs. Crowley was struck to the floor by a heavy blow.

The father dragged the terror-stricken little fellow from behind the
bed.

"Come! Damn you! I'm not done yet! I'll teach you to be scared of your
dad and to yell like an idiot when I come into my own house," and the
blows fell rapidly.

On the little hands when they were raised to protect the head, on the
head when the hands dropped down in pain, on the legs when the body
twisted in agony, on the back when the body bent to shield the legs, and
the childish voice broke through the screams at intervals:

"What for? Oh, what for?"

Mrs. Crowley looked around the room for something with which to fight
the man. She seized an iron frying-pan and struck him with all the force
she could summon, but the blow was insufficient.

He loosed the child only long enough to push his wife violently to the
wall and choke her until she gasped and grew dizzy, adding a couple of
blows as a finishing touch, and after tossing her weapon from the window
again turned his attention to the child.

"Not done yet! No! Not done! Take this--and this--and this," and heavy
blows sounded.

"Oh, papa! tell me what for, and I'll never, never do it any more.
Please, papa, what for?" and the child raised his terror-stricken face
to his father's, but the brute struck the little upturned face.

"No--you won't do it again when I get done. I'm not done yet. Not done."

Mrs. Crowley again sprang upon the madman, and, drawing her fingers
tightly around his neck, threw her whole force into the grasp, but he
loosened it. Then he kicked her out the door and bolted it fast.

The child had fallen to the floor, but partly arose as the father
returned.

"Not done yet--no--not done," and he struck the poor, bleeding body many
blows.

The boy