“What’s goin’ to happen if I don’t?” said Will, dropping the tool he had been using.
“I’ll send you spinning down-stairs and out of the store door in a hurry,” said the man, still fuming.
“Look here, Mr. Brown, or Bob Brown, if you like it better, maybe you don’t know that you’re barking up the wrong tree,” said Will, insolently. “Ordering ain’t in my line. Ask me like a gentleman and I’ll stand on my head for you; but I’m not a feller that’s used to bein’ kicked by any man’s toe or tongue, either.”
“Then you won’t take it down?”
“I’ll see you so far t’other side of nowhere that a forty-horse team couldn’t draw you back in a lifetime, afore I’ll take it an inch.”
Will returned to his former task of opening the case.
Mr. Brown’s face was purple with rage, and the veins stood out on his forehead, as he listened to this unexampled rebellion.
“Why, you ragged young reprobate, who was only brought here by charity!” he cried, hotly. “Hang me if I don’t kick you down-stairs myself, and fling the goods after you!”
Suiting the action to the word he grasped Will with a nervous grip, and sought to hustle him to the head of the stairs.
But if ever man caught a Tartar, Mr. Brown had done so in this action.