The engineer chuckled in sly exultation.
"He's in the office. He didna say nowt about givin' thee th' bag; but tha may as well mak' up thy moind to it. Tha wert pretty cheeky, tha knows, considerin' he wur th' mester."
"Look here," with some heat; "do you mean to say you think I was in the wrong? Am I to let the fellow insult me and not resent it—touch me with his foot, as if I were a dog?"
"Tha'rt particular, my lad," dryly. "An' tha does na know as much o' th' mester koind as most folk." But the next instant he flung down the tool he held in his hand. "Dom thee!" he cried. "I loike thy pluck. Stick to it, lad,—mesters or no mesters."
As Murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, Jem Haworth turned in his seat and greeted him with a short nod not altogether combative. Then he leaned forward, with his arms upon the table before him.
"Sit down," he said. "I'd like to take a look at the chap who thought he could thrash Jem Haworth."
But Murdoch did not obey him.
"I suppose you have something to say to me," he said, "as you sent for me."
He did not receive the answer he was prepared for. Jem Haworth burst into a loud laugh.