“How d’y’ do, Flea?” grinned Cronk.  His delight was like that of a small boy who has captured a bright-winged butterfly in a net.

“I got yer letter, Pappy Lon,” said Fledra, overlooking his impudent manner.

“And ye goin’ to stay, ain’t ye?” gurgled Lem.

Fledra snapped out “Nope!” to the scowman’s question, without looking at him.  Her next words were directed to the squatter: 

“I’ve come to beg ye, Pappy Lon, to let me stay in Tarrytown.  Mr. Shellington wants to marry me.”

She was so frail, so girlishly sweet and desirable, that Lem uttered an oath.  But Lon gestured a command of silence.

“Ye can’t marry no man yit, Flea,” said he.  “Ye has to go back to the hut.”  Determination rang in his words, and the face of the rigid girl paled, and she caught at the table for support.  “Ye see,” went on Lon, “a kid can’t do a thing her pappy says she can’t.  I says yer to come home to the shanty.  And, if ye don’t, then I’ll do what I said I would.  I’ll kill that dude Shellington and—­”

Before he could finish, Fledra burst in upon him.

“Ye mustn’t!  Ye mustn’t, Pappy Lon!  I love him so!  And he’s so good!  And poor little Flukey is so sick, though he’s gettin’ better, and if I’m happy, then he’ll get well!  Don’t ye love us one little bit, Pappy Lon?” She loosened her hold upon the table and neared the squatter.

Cronk brushed his face awkwardly.  The presence of his Midge filled the scow-room, and his dead baby, wee and well beloved, goaded him to complete his vengeance.  For a few seconds he breathed hard, with difficulty choking down sobs that shook his whole body.  In a haze, the ghost-woman wavered toward him through the long, bitter years he had lived without her.  She thrust herself between him and Fledra.  The image that his heated brain had drawn up held out a tiny spirit babe, and so real was the apparition that he put out a trembling hand.  For a moment he groped blindly for something tangible in the nothingness before him.  Then, with a groan, he let his arm fall nerveless to his side.  The vision disappeared, and Lem’s presence and even Fledra’s faded; for Lon again felt the agonizing cracking of his bones under the prison strait-jacket, and could hear himself shrieking.

He started up and wiped drops of water from his face.  He glared at Fledra, his decision remaining steadfast within him.  Only exquisite torture for Vandecar’s flesh and blood would appease the wrath of Midge and the pale-faced child.

“I love ye well enough to want ye to do my will,” he brought out huskily, “and when Flukey gits well he’ll come with me, too.”

Fledra braced herself for the ordeal.  Lon had promised her in his letter that sacrificing herself would mean safety for Floyd and her lover.  She would not allow him to break that promise, however much he demanded of her.

Cronk spoke again: 

“Ye’d better take off yer things and set down, Flea ’cause ye ain’t goin’ back.”