The talk went on in broken whispers, and it was quite late in the evening when a stumbling step advanced to the door, which was burst open, and there stood Abel Newt, with his hat crushed, his clothes soiled, his jaw hanging, and his eyes lifted in a drunken leer.
"How do ?" he said, leaning against the door-frame and nodding his head.
His mother, who had never before seen him in such a condition, glanced at him, and uttered a frightened cry.

Lawrence Newt and Gabriel rose, and, going toward him, took his arms and tried to lead him out.

Abel had no kindly feeling for either of them.

His brow lowered, and the sullen blackness shot into his eyes.
"Hands off!" he cried, in a threatening tone.
They still urged him out of the room.
"Hands off!" he said again, looking at Lawrence Newt, and then in a sneering tone: "Oh! the Reverend Gabriel Bennet! Come, I licked you like--like--like hell once, and I'll--I'll--I'll--do it again.

Stand back!" he shouted, with drunken energy, and struggling to free his arms.
But Gabriel and Lawrence Newt held fast.