man
or child, or both, in agony, the brutal bellowings and threats of a
predominant drunken lout, presumably Mr. Salter, the incessant appeals
to God and Christ by terrified women, and the rhetorical use of the
names of both by the men, with the frequent suggestion that some one
else should go for the police--this actual substance may be drily
stated thus: Mr. Salter, a plumber by trade, but at present out of
work, had given way to ennui, and to relieve it had for two days past
been beating and otherwise maltreating his daughter, aged fourteen,
and had threatened the life of her mother for endeavouring to protect
her. At the moment when he comes into this story (as a mere passing
event we shall soon forget without regret) he is engaged in the
fulfilment of a previous promise to his unhappy wife--a promise we
cannot transcribe literally, because of the free employment of a
popular adjective (supposed to be a corruption of "by Our Lady")
before or after any part of speech whatever, as an expletive to drive
home meaning to reluctant minds. It is an expression unwelcome on the
drawing-room table. But, briefly, what Mr. Salter had so sworn to do
was to twist his wife's nose off with his finger and thumb. And he
did not seem unlikely to carry out his threat, as Livermore's tenantry
lacked spirit or will to interpose, and did nothing but shriek in
panic when feminine, and show discretion when masculine; mostly
affecting indifference, and saying they warn't any good, them Salters.
The result seemed likely to turn on whether the victim's back hair
would endure the tension as a fulcrum, or would come rippin' out like
so much grarse.

"Let go of her!" half bellows, half shrieks her legal possessor, in
answer to a peremptory summons. "Not for a swiney, soap-eatin'
Apoarstle--not for a rotten parson's egg, like you. Not for a...."

But the defiance is cut short by a blow like the kick of a horse, that
lands fairly on the eye-socket with a cracking concussion that can be
heard above the tumult, and is followed by a roar of delight from the
male vermin, who see all the joys before them of battle unshared and
dangerless--the joys bystanders feel in foemen worthy of each other's
steel, and open to be made the subject of wagers.

The fare rejects all offers to hold his coat, but throws his felt hat
to a boy to hold. Self-elected seconds make a kind of show of getting
a clear space. No idea of assisting in the suppression of a dangerou