It was not difficult to get into the house, and he found it still and dark. Cautiously he tiptoed to the window and ran his fingers over the casing above it. Nothing but dust. Next he tried the hole in the chimney. Here his unsteady fingers grasped something he thought to be the box, but it proved to be only a loose brick. Growing impatient, he went to the cupboard and fumbled in the corner. No box. He was getting reckless now. Taking a match from his pocket he drew it across the wall. It sputtered and cast a ray long enough for him to find the lamp, which he lit. The little boy Johnnie, in a bed close by, stirred slightly, rolled over a couple of times, and sat up in bed and opened his eyes. Mr. Crowley, having lost all control of himself, was noisily peering into every nook and cranny. As the father moved nearer, the boy crept closer to his mother, and, huddling by her side, began to cry. It was when he heard the boy's cry that the fire within him licked up the last of his manhood and the Devil had full sway. He set the lamp down with a bang and sprang toward the bed. The boy threw his arms around his mother and gave a cry of terror. "Mamma! O mamma! Hold me tight! Don't let him get me! O mamma! mamma! mamma!" The mother held the child close, but the man had seized him. They struggled for a minute--a madman's strength and a devil's cunning against a mother's love--unequal struggle! The man--a demon now--had the child. He cast his eye around the room and picked up a knotty piece of wood. The boy pulled frantically back toward his mother, trembling and screaming, but the die was cast. A volley of oaths burst from the drunken fiend's lips. "Not much this time! No help now, till I'm done with you. Damn you! Stand up," and he gave the boy a blow that caused him to twist with pain, but he steadied his voice to ask: "What for, papa? What for?" But the words were lost in screams, for the blows kept falling. Mrs. Crowley rushed up and caught his uplifted arm. "You will kill the child! You are mad. Help! Somebody help!" she cried; but no help came. Drunken rows are a part of our civilization. The boy had succeeded in getting away, but the unequal struggle was soon at an end, and Mrs. Crowley was struck to the floor by a heavy blow. The father dragged the terror-stricken little fellow from behind the bed. "Come! Damn you! I'm not done yet! I'll teach you to be scared of your dad and to yell like an idiot when I come into my own house," and the blows fell rapidly. On the little hands when they were raised to protect the head, on the head when the hands dropped down in pain, on the legs when the body twisted in agony, on the back when the body bent to shield the legs, and the childish voice broke through the screams at intervals: "What for? Oh, what for?"