He turned to her with a grin, one hand on the box. He had been tramping
for more than three months, during which time they had heard nothing of
him. His filthy clothes scarcely hung together. His cheeks were hollow
and wolfish. From the whole man there rose a sort of exhalation of
sodden vice. Bessie had seen him drunken and out at elbows before, but
never so much of the beast as this.

However, by this time she had somewhat recovered herself, and,
approaching him, she stooped and tried to shut the box.

'You take yourself off,' she said, desperately, pushing him with her
fist. 'That money's no business o' yourn. It's John's, an he's comin
back directly. He gave it us to look after, an I wor countin it. March!
--there's your father comin!'

And with all her force she endeavoured to wrench his hand away. He tore
it from her, and hit out at her backwards--a blow that sent her reeling
against the wall.

'Yo take yer meddlin fist out o' that!' he said. 'Father ain't comin,
and if he wor, I 'spect I could manage the two on yer--_Keowntin_ it'--
he mimicked her. 'Oh! yer a precious innercent, ain't yer? But I know
all about yer. Bless yer, I've been in at the "Spotted Deer" to-night,
and there worn't nothin else talked of but yo and yor goins-on. There
won't be a tongue in the place to-morrow that won't be a-waggin about
yer--yur a public charickter, yo are--they'll be sendin the reporters
down on yer for a hinterview. "Where the Devil do she get the money?"
they says.'

He threw his curly head back and laughed till his sides shook.