I fell back in the bed, feeling as if I had been struck on the head with a heavy weight. “You scoundrel!” I gasped.
“Sour grapes,” he muttered, his cheeks aflame and his eyes blazing at me.
“‘Don’t get apoplectic,’ he said, calmly; ‘you know you stole your start.’”
“What do you mean?” I said, my mind in confusion.
“The fathers have eaten sour grapes,” he quoted, “and the children’s teeth are set on edge.”
I half sprang from the bed at this insolence. “Don’t get apoplectic,” he said, calmly; “you know you stole your start.”
At this infamous calumny I leaped upon him and flung him bodily out of the room. It was several hours before I was calm enough to dismiss the incident sufficiently to take up my affairs.
This has come at a particularly unfortunate time for me, as I am in the midst of several delicate, vast, and intricate negotiations, involving many millions and demanding all my thought. He has gone down on Long Island in care of his mother. It will be at least ten days before I can take up his case and dispose of it. I am undecided whether to give him another trial under severe conditions or to cast him off and make his younger brother my principal heir and successor. I confess to a weakness for him—possibly because he is so audacious and fearless. His younger brother is entirely too smooth and diplomatic with me; if I should elevate him, he would fancy that he had deceived me with his transparent tricks.
However, we shall see.