“Nope, I ain’t no notion o’ marryin’,” repeated Flea, encouraged by her brother’s insistence.

“Who said as how Lem wanted ye to marry him?” sneered Lon, eying her from head to foot.  “Yer notions one way or nother ain’t nothin’ to me, my gal.  Ye’ll go with the man I choose for ye, and that’s all there be to it!”

Dazed by his first words, she whispered, “I hate Lem Crabbe!”

As if by its own volition, the hook rose threateningly to within a short distance of the fair, appealing face.  But it dropped again, as Lon repeated: 

“That ain’t nothin’ to do with the thing, nuther, Flea.  A man ain’t a seekin’ for a lovin’ woman.  He wants her to take care of his shanty and what he gets by hard work, he does, and he gives her victuals and drink for the doin’ of it.  That’s enough for you, or for any gal what’s a squatter.”

So well did Flea realize the powerlessness of the rigid boy at her side to help her, that she dropped his hand and alone went nearer to the thief.

“Can’t I stay with you and with Granny Cronk for another year?  Can’t I stay?  Can’t I, Pappy Lon?”

“Nope, I wouldn’t keep ye in the shanty if ye had money for yer keeps.  Ye go on a Saturday to Lem’s boat to be his woman, ye see?”

The iron hook by this time was hanging loosely by Lem’s side; but a cruel expression had gathered on the sullen face.  A frown drew the crafty eyes together, bespeaking wrath at the girl’s words.

That he would have her at the bidding of her father, Lem never doubted.  During the last three years he had been resolved to take her home in due time to be his woman.  To subdue the proud young spirit, to make her the mother of children like himself,—­the boys destined to be thieves, and the girls squatter women,—­was his one ambition.  That he was old enough to be her father made no difference to him.

He was watching her as she stood in the darkening twilight, gloating over the thought that his vicious dreams were so near their fulfilment.

Flea was looking into the eyes of her father, and he looked back at her with an impudent smile.

“Ye don’t like the thought of this comin’ Saturday, Flea—­eh?” he asked slowly.  “But, as I said before, a gal hain’t nothin’ to do with the notions of her daddy.  And Granny Cronk’ll give ye a pork cake to take to Lem’s, and he’ll let ye eat it all to yerself.  Eh, Lem?”

“Yep,” grunted Lem.  “She eats the pork cake if she will; but after that—­”

Suddenly Lon silenced Lem’s words with a wag of his head toward the girl.  “Flea,” he said, “I telled Lem as how ye’d kiss him tonight.”

The words stunned the girl, they were so unexpected, so terrible.  She turned her eyes upon Lem and fearfully studied his face.  He was gazing back, his open lips showing his discolored, broken teeth.  The coarse, red hair sprinkled with gray gave a fierce aspect to his whole appearance, and from the emotion through which he was passing the muscles under his chin worked to and fro.  With a grin he advanced toward her.  Flea fell back against Flukey.  The boy steadied the trembling, slender body.