“You’ve been insulting me in your own house for the last quarter of an hour,” retorted Ralston.
“And you’re throwing away the last chance you’ll ever get from me—”
“It wasn’t much of a chance—for a gentleman,” sneered the young man, interrupting him.
“Confound it! Can’t you let me speak? I say—” He hesitated, losing the thread of his intended speech in his anger.
“You don’t seem to have anything especial to say, except in the way of abuse, and there’s no reason at all why I should listen to that sort of thing. I’m not your son, and I’m not your butler—I’m thankful I’m not your dog!”
“John!” roared the old man, shaking him by the arm. “Be silent, sir! I won’t submit to such language!”
“What right have you to tell me what I shall submit to, or not submit to? Because you’re a sort of distant relation, I suppose, and have got into the habit of lording it over the whole tribe—who would lick the heels of your boots for your money—every one of them, except my mother and Katharine and me. Don’t tell me what I’m to submit to—”
“I didn’t say you!” shouted old Lauderdale. “I said that I wouldn’t hear such language from you—you’re drunk, John Ralston—you’re mad drunk.”