"Speak respectfully," screamed the miser.
"I am, though I've got no particular call to," said Tom. Truth to tell he was not in an amiable temper, what with his hunger, and his rags, and his meeting with Jeremiah. "You sent for me. What do you want? And mind this—I don't stir hand or foot till I get something to eat."
Miser Farebrother became suddenly quite cool. It was generally the case when an antagonist he had in his power was before him.
"Something to eat, eh? You scoundrel! you have the stomach of an ostrich."
"I wish I had," said Tom; "then I could fill it with stones and rusty nails. As it is, I can't get those things down. I give you warning——"
"What!" cried Miser Farebrother; "you give me warning?"
"Yes; not to call hard names, or mayhap I'll throw them back at you."
"Do you dare to speak to me in that manner," said the miser, "after all I've done for you?"
Tom Barley looked ruefully at his rags of clothes, and said, with unconscious humour, "Yes, you have done for me; there's no mistake about that. I remember you promised to make my fortune. I look as if it was made!"
"And whose fault is it," said Miser Farebrother, "that you're a pauper—whose fault but your own? That is, if what you say is true. But it isn't. You've got money rolled up in bundles somewhere—my money, that you've robbed me of."