He laughed hysterically until tears ran down his cheeks.
"Thass ri', ole girl! Trus' take care of me! Nashly! Father
drunkard--father _dead_ drunkard! Nash'ly ta' care poor little Louis."
Ole Fred and the red-haired man had made immediately for the bar,
but finding it closed had come back to claim Louis. They saw the
schoolmaster's white face and Louis's passionate gestures; they scented
a fight, and hoped for it.
"Wan' 'ny 'elp, mate?" cried Ole Fred, putting up his fists.
Marcella did not see them. She saw her father standing by his bed,
holding on to the post, praying for courage. Something in her brain gave
a little snap like a fiddle string breaking, and, taking Louis by both
shoulders, she shook him violently. His head wobbled about loosely. He
was terrified, and so were the others. Ole Fred had seen girls and women
resort to physical argument: in his world of the East End it was quite
common, but he was rather surprised to see a "young lady" do it. Nor had
they ever imagined it possible for such a blaze of anger to scorch
anyone as shone in her eyes, vibrated in her voice as she loosed him,
quite breathless, propped him against the rail and said, very quietly:
"The very next time you mention my father I'll put you in the sea."
Louis was trembling and staring at her, his mouth open.
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