For a second Johnny stared. Then he reached Butson at a spring and knocked him backward with a swing of his right fist. The crutch lay behind the man’s heels and tripped him, so that he sat backward on the floor, mightily astonished. Johnny snatched the poker and waved it close about Butson’s head. “Don’t you move!” he cried, white with passion. “Don’t you try to get up, or I’ll beat your head in!” Mr. Butson raised his arm to save his skull, but caught a blow across the bone that sent it numb to his side. “Johnny—don’t!” cried Nan, snatching at his arm. “O Henry! pray don’t—” “Get away, mother,” said Johnny, “or I’ll have to hit his head! You blackguard coward! You—you’re a meaner hound even than I took you for! You’ll touch my sister—a lame girl—will you?” At the thought he struck, but again Nan caught at him, and only Mr. Butson’s shoulder suffered. “Don’t, Johnny!” his mother entreated. “Think o’ the neighbours! They can hear next door!” So they could, and for the sake of trade the proprieties of Harbour Lane must be respected. To have a row in the house was a scandal unpardonable in Harbour Lane. In the height of his anger Johnny remembered, and instinctively dropped his voice. “Very well,” he said, “then call a p’liceman—I’ll lock him up!” Johnny’s anger kept his reason half astray yet, or he would have remembered that to have a member of the household taken off by a policeman would be more disgraceful than twenty rows. But Mr. Butson’s consternation, though momentary, was plain. “Johnny, Johnny,” pleaded poor Nan, “think of the disgrace! Do let’s make it up—for my sake, Johnny!” Bessy was crying in a corner, and Nan was choking and sobbing. Johnny wavered, and the poker stopped in mid-air. Butson took heart of grace and moved to get up, though he kept his eye on the poker. “Better take ’im away,” he growled to Nan, “if ye don’t want me to smash ’im!” Straightway the poker waved again, and Mr. Butson changed his mind as to getting up. “Smash me?” Johnny asked. “Smash me, eh? Keep a civil tongue, or you shall have it now! See?” and he thrust the point against Mr. Butson’s nose, leaving a black smear. “Don’t think I care for you! If this was anywhere else I’d ha’ broken your head in twenty places! Now you sit there an’ listen to me, Mr. Butson. What you are we know. You came here starving, with about half a suit o’ boiler clothes in the world, and my mother fed you—out o’ charity, an’ worse luck. She fed you, and she put clothes on your lazy carcase, and you cadged and begged as a mongrel dog wouldn’t. Stop where you are, or you’ll have it!” This with another flourish of the poker and another smear on the nose. Mr. Butson sat up again, a figure of ignominy.