“Mr. Bayne,” said he, abruptly, “I am come for my month's wages.”
The tone was so aggressive, Bayne looked alarmed. “Why, Little, poor Mr. Cheetham is gone home with a bad headache, and a sore heart.”
“All the better. I don't want to tell him to his face he is a bragging cur; all I want out of him now is my money; and you can pay me that.”
The pacific Bayne cast a piteous glance at Dr. Amboyne. “I have told you the whole business, sir. Oughtn't Mr. Little to wait till to-morrow, and talk it over with Mr. Cheetham? I'm only a servant: and a man of peace.”
“Whether he ought or not, I think I can answer for him that he will.”
“I can't, sir,” said Henry, sturdily. “I leave the town to-morrow.”
“Oh, that alters the case. But must you leave us so soon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I am very sorry for that. Tell me your reason. I don't ask out of mere curiosity.”
Henry replied with less than his usual candor; “Is it not reason enough for leaving a place, that my life has been attempted in it, and now my livelihood is taken?”