Johnny. That’s it! I took it out of my pocket, and I never put it in again. I want you to go directly and look for the ball. That stile is only three fields off, you know. You must look carefully along the path all the way; and lose no time, or some one else may pick it up.
Alie. Pray, Johnny, don’t ask me to go into the fields.
Johnny. I tell you, you have plenty of time for your lessons.
Alie. It is not that, but—
Johnny. Speak out, will you?
Alie. You know—there are—cows!
Johnny burst into a loud, coarse laugh of derision. “You miserable little coward!” he cried, “I’d like to see one chasing you round the meadow! How you’d scamper! how you’d scream! rare fun it would be—ha, ha, ha!”
“Rare fun would it be, sir!” exclaimed an indignant voice, as Jonas stumped from the next room, and, seizing his nephew by the collar of his jacket, gave him a hearty shake; “rare fun would it be—and what do you call this? You dare twit your sister with cowardice!—you who sneaked off yesterday like a fox because you had not the spirit to look an old man in the face!—you who bully the weak and cringe to the strong!—you who have the manners of a bear with the heart of a pigeon!” Every sentence was accompanied by a violent shake, which almost took the breath from the boy; and Jonas, red with passion, concluded his speech by flinging Johnny from him with such force that, but for the wall against which he staggered, he must have fallen to the ground.
The next minute Jonas walked up to the mantelpiece, and exclaiming, in a tone of vexation, “Run aground again!” took his pipe, snapped it in two, and flung the pieces into the fire. He then stumped back to his room, slamming the door behind him.
“The old fury!” muttered the panting Johnny between his clenched teeth, looking fiercely towards his uncle’s room.