“You did it on purpose,” I said sullenly, trying not to whimper as I dusted myself.
“Me!” he cried, in beautiful astonishment. “Why, howsomever can you charge it to me, master, walking with your nose in the air?”
“It’s you that has your nose in the air,” I retaliated malevolently.
He flushed through his tan, and squared up to me.
“Say that agen!” he hissed, lifting his lip like a weasel.
“Once is enough,” I answered.
He danced about me, making play in the air with his fists.
“Is it!” he gasped, spasmodic. “O yus, o’ course!—I’ll larn you—you dursen’t—foonk!—private poople—yah!—take your lickun, then!”
Something must have stirred in the garden at the moment, for he suddenly flounced round and off, his mouth drawn down contemptuous, and his chin stuck out. But I had not done with him by any means.
Mr. Sant received me that morning, I thought, oddly, and made no allusion to my battered appearance. Neither did I, at which, perhaps, he cleared a little.