Mr. Beck was thrown from
his trap and killed. The thing was an unruly horse, and, as I say, it
happened. Cavilla had to seek fresh employment and find another house.
This occurred eighteen months ago. For eighteen months he fought the big
fight. He got rooms in a little house in Batavia Road, but could not
make both ends meet. Steady work could not be obtained. He struggled
manfully at casual employment of all sorts, his wife and four children
starving before his eyes. He starved himself, and grew weak, and fell
ill. This was three months ago, and then there was absolutely no food at
all. They made no complaint, spoke no word; but poor folk know. The
housewives of Batavia Road sent them food, but so respectable were the
Cavillas that the food was sent anonymously, mysteriously, so as not to
hurt their pride.
The thing had happened. He had fought, and starved, and suffered for
eighteen months. He got up one September morning, early. He opened his
pocket-knife. He cut the throat of his wife, Hannah Cavilla, aged thirty-
three. He cut the throat of his first-born, Frank, aged twelve. He cut
the throat of his son, Walter, aged eight. He cut the throat of his
daughter, Nellie, aged four.
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