They were unusually bad
last night, both father and mother; the child was frightened and had
begun to whimper. Angered still further by the sound, the man had seized
a stove-lifter and flung it straight at baby's head. But Peter had
already sprung between and the missile struck him full on the forehead,
causing a wicked-looking bruise. He had lain stunned for a time, then
crept into bed with baby and listened in terror as the quarrel between
his father and mother progressed from words to blows. He had not minded
these things before, but what would he do if father should ever beat
baby as he, Peter, had been beaten so many times? And Peter felt the
time was coming when father would surely do it. Last night was but the
beginning.
A noise from the next room told him that mother must be waking from the
drunken sleep in which she had lain for several hours. At any moment she
might open that door and enter the kitchen, and her temper was always
terrible when she would first awaken from those long sleeps which
followed a carousal. In a few moments, too, father would come home. The
fire refused to burn; so supper would not be ready, and with mother in a
temper and no supper at hand, something would surely happen.
Peter looked at the sleeping baby and shuddered. For her sake he dared
not face another night like last night.
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