Dalton, who was elder brother to the lover of Mave Sullivan, seized Hacket with one of his hands, and spun him like a child to the other end of the room.
“Keep away,” he exclaimed, “till I settle wid him--here now, Skinadre, listen to me--you refused my father credit when we wanted it, although you knew we were honest--you refused him credit when we were turned out of our place, although you knew the sickness was among us--well, you know whether we that wor your friends, an'--my father at least--the makin' of you”--and as he spoke, he accompanied every third word by a shake or two, as a kind of running commentary upon what he said; “ay--you did--you knew it well, and I could bear all that; but I can't bear you to turn this unfortunate girl out of your place, widout what she wants, and she's sinkin' wid hunger herself. If she's in distress, 'twas I that brought her to it, an' to shame an' to sorrow too--but I'll set all right for you yet, Margaret dear--an' no one has a betther right to spake for her.”
“Tom,” said the young woman, with a feeble voice, “for the love of God let him go or he'll drop.”
“Not,” replied Dalton, “till he gives you what you come for. Come now,” he proceeded, addressing the miser, “weigh her. How much will you be able to carry, Margaret?”
“Oh, never mind, now, Tom,” she replied, “I don't want any, it's the ould people at home--it's them--it's them.”
“Weigh her out,” continued the other, furiously; “weigh her out a stone of meal, or by all the lies that ever came from your lips, I'll squeeze the breath out of your body, you deceitful ould hypocrite.”
“I will,” said the miser, panting, and adjusting his string of a cravat, “I will, Tom; here, I ain't able, weigh it yourself--I'm not--indeed I'm not able,” said he, breathless; “an' I was thinkin when you came in of sendin' afther her, bekase, when I heard of the sickness among them, that I mayn't sin, but I found my heart bleedin' inwar--”
[Illustration: PAGE 807-- Tom's clutches were again at his throat]
Tom's clutches were again at his throat. “Another lie,” he exclaimed, “and you'r a gone man. Do what I bid you.”
Skinadre appeared, in point of fact, unable to do so, and Dalton seeing this, weighed the unhappy young woman a stone of oatmeal, which, on finding it too heavy for her feeble strength, he was about to take up himself when he put his hands to his temples, then staggered and fell.