The Loom of Destiny
prepared to kick the woman into the street after the cradle.
"Money, damn you; I must 'ave money!" roared the man, mad drunk. He had been born within sound of Bow Bells, and under drink or sudden passion his Cockney accent and his hunger to kick women came back to him.
"'Old off, you bloody young whelp!" he cried the next minute, for Timmie had seen the act and had flung himself on his father, tooth and nail. "'Old off, I say, or I'll kick your bloody young guts out!"
The man shook the boy off as a bull-dog would shake a pup, roughly, but not unkindly.
"Money! you bawlin' 'ound, money, I say, or I'll—"
Timmie knew his mother was going to be murdered. This time he fought with neither his fists nor his feet. With vice-like arms he clutched his father about the knees, and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of the huge leg he held, till the blood spurted out on the blue-jean overalls, and the taste of it on his lips turned him sick.
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