Marcella stopped dead. Things were trickling into her mind. She saw her
father and her little thin arm dangling sickeningly when he broke it
years ago; all her childish terrors of him came back, associated with
the whisky, changed into a general terror of anything that was a father.
She saw Jimmy's little arm broken--and there were three of them in that
tiny cabin to break his little arm!

"Oh, poor wee mannie! Jimmy, ye're just going to sleep in my little
house."

He started to dance with joy, holding on to her hand and hopping on one
foot in the alley-way. Then his face clouded over.

"There'll be nobody to make daddy get in bed, then," he said.

"Well--"

"His back'll be bad to-morrow if he lies on the floor."

"The ugly man will make him go to bed, because if he doesn't they won't
have anywhere to walk," she said, determined to save his arm at any
cost.

"D'you think so?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, quite sure. He'll be quite safe. Where's your nighty?"

He darted into Number 15 and came back with a minute bundle.