out of his head, while Joe would bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out," and nearly send her to her grave.
But one day Jack did get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing, came to the door with the axe on his shoulder. They dropped the irons, and shrank into a corner and cowered piteously—too scared even to cry out.
He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tiptoes, approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to grip the axe with both hands. Theu with a howl and a bound he entered the room and shattered the looking'-Glass into fragments.
He bent down and looked closely at the pieces
"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Theu he went to work at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.
Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut. He's the best horse Dad ever had. He slaves from daylight till dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages. His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours call him "Cranky Jack."
