Phil came a step or two forward, shaking Fee's hand off. "Look here!" he said sharply, "this thing might's well be settled right here, and once for all. I'm a man, not a child, I'll have you to understand, and I'm not going to be controlled by you. Just remember that, and don't try any more of your little games on me, as you have to-night, for I will not stand 'em! The idea of your coming up there among those fellows and making such an ass of yourself—"
"The asinine part of this evening's performance belongs to you and your friends, not to me," broke in Felix, hotly,—Phil's tone was so insolent. "And there are a few things that you might as well understand, too," he went on more calmly. "If you continue to go to Chad's, I shall go, too; if you make those fellows your boon companions, they shall be mine as well; if you continue to drink and gamble, as you've been doing lately, and to-night, I will drink and gamble, too. I mean every word I am saying, Phil. It may go against the grain at first to associate with such cads as Chad and his crowd; but perhaps that'll wear away in time, and I may come to enjoy what I now abhor. As these low pleasures have fascinated you, so they may fascinate me."
"If you ever put your foot in Chad Whitcombe's house again, I'll make him turn you out," cried Phil, in a rage, shaking his finger at Felix. "Why, you donkey! less than three months of that sort of life'd use you up completely. I'll fix you, if you ever undertake to try it; I'll go straight to the pater,—I swear I will."
"No need to do that, old fellow," Fee said, in such a loving voice! "Just drop that set you've got into, and be your own upright, honourable self again, and you shall never hear another word of such talk out of me. But," he added earnestly, "I cannot, I will not stand seeing you, my brother, my chum, our mother's son"—Fee's voice shook—"going all wrong, without lifting a finger to save you. Why, Phil, I'd give my very life, if need be, to keep you from becoming a drunkard and a gambler. Don't go back to those fellows to-night, dear old boy; for—for her sake, don't go!" Felix was pleading with his whole heart in his voice, looking eagerly, entreatingly up at Phil, and holding out his hands to him.
My throat was just filling up as Fee spoke,—I could almost have cried; and I'm sure Phil was touched, too, but he tried not to let us see it. He sort of scuffled his feet on the marble tiling of the hall, and cleared his throat in the most indifferent way, looking up at the gas fixture. "Perhaps I will drop them by and by," he said carelessly, "but I can't just yet,—in fact, I don't want to just yet; I have a reason. And that reminds me—I must go back to-night. Now don't get silly over me, Felix; there's no danger whatever of my becoming a drunkard or a gambler,—nice opinion of me you must have!—and I'm quite equal to taking care of myself. As I've told you several times before, I'm a man now, not a child, and I will not have you or anybody running round after me. Just remember that!" As he spoke, he turned deliberately to go out.
Then Fee did a foolish thing; he ought to have known Phil better, but he was so awfully disappointed that I guess he forgot. In about one second—I don't know how he ever got there so quickly—he had limped to the door, and planted himself with his back against it. His face was just as white! and his lips were set tight together, and he held his head up in the air, looking Phil square in the eye.
A horrid nervous feeling came over me,—I just felt there was going to be trouble. I stood up on the steps quickly, and called out, "Oh, boys, don't quarrel! Oh, please, please don't quarrel!" But Phil was talking, and I don't believe they even heard me.
"Get away from that door,—I'm going out!" Phil commanded.
Not a word answered Fee; he just stood there, his eyes shining steadily up at Phil through his glasses.
"Do you hear me?" Phil said savagely. "Get—out—of—the—way. I don't want to hurt you, but I am determined to go out. Come,—move!"