“Eh, sir,” said Bill, rather appalled at his master’s face, “this stuffs cured our horses these fifty year.”
“You have disobeyed me,” said Alvar, “and I will not suffer it. I dismiss you from my service—you may go. I will not forgive you.”
Old Bill lifted up his bent figure, and stared at his master in utter amaze.
“I served your honour’s grandfather—me and mine,” he said.
“You cannot obey me. What are your wages? I will pay them—you may go.” Neither the old man himself, nor the helpers who had begun to gather round, belonged to a race of violent words, or indeed of violent deeds; but there was more hate in the faces that were turned on Alvar than would have winged many an Irish bullet. All were silent, till a little brother of Cherry’s friends, the Flemings, called out, saucily enough,—“’Twas Mr Cherry’s orders.”
As if stung beyond endurance, Alvar turned, caught the boy by the shoulder, and raising his cane, struck him once, twice, several times, with a violence of which he himself was hardly conscious.
This was the scene that met Cheriton’s startled eyes as he came up to the stable to inquire for the sick horse.
He uttered a loud exclamation of astonishment and dismay, and put his hand on Alvar’s shoulder.
Alvar, with a final blow, threw the lad away from him, and faced round on Cheriton, drew himself up, and folded his arms, as he said, regardless of the spectators,—
“I will not have it that you interfere with me, to alter my orders, or to stop me in what I do. You shall not do it.”