"Yer afraid not!" echoed Billy Byrne, in amazement.
"For her sake I hope that they did," said Theriere; "for
such as she it would have been a far less horrible fate than the
one I fear they have reserved her for."
"You mean--" queried Byrne, and then he stopped, for the
realization of just what Theriere did mean swept over him
quite suddenly.
There was no particular reason why Billy Byrne should
have felt toward women the finer sentiments which are so
cherished a possession of those men who have been gently
born and raised, even after they have learned that all women
are not as was the feminine ideal of their boyhood.
Billy's mother, always foul-mouthed and quarrelsome, had
been a veritable demon when drunk, and drunk she had been
whenever she could, by hook or crook, raise the price of
whiskey. Never, to Billy's recollection, had she spoken a word
of endearment to him; and so terribly had she abused him
that even while he was yet a little boy, scarce out of babyhood,
he had learned to view her with a hatred as deep-rooted
as is the affection of most little children for their mothers.
When he had come to man's estate he had defended himself
from the woman's brutal assaults as he would have defended
himself from another man--when she had struck, Billy had
struck back; the only thing to his credit being that he never
had struck her except in self-defense.
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