and said sharply,--

"Who's there?"

"Me, pop."

"John Milton?"

"Yes, sir."

"What the devil are you doin' there, sir?"

"Readin'."

It was true. The boy was half reclining in a most distorted posture on
two chairs, his figure in deep shadow, but his book was raised above his
head so as to catch the red glow of the stove on the printed page.
Even then his father's angry interruption scarcely diverted his
preoccupation; he raised himself in his chair mechanically, with his
eyes still fixed on his book. Seeing which his father quickly regained
the paper, but continued his objurgation.

"How dare you? Clear off to bed, will you! Do you hear me? Pretty
goin's on," he added as if to justify his indignation. "Sneakin' in here
and--and lyin' 'round at this time o' night! Why, if I hadn't come in
here to"--

"What?" asked the boy mechanically, catching vaguely at the unfinished
sentence and staring automatically at the paper in his father's hand.