“I cayn’t leave ye out, Tom,” said Mr. Stamps, “fer ye’re in. Ye’d be as big a fool as ye look ef ye was doin’ all this yere fer nothin’.”
“All what?” demanded Tom.
“Gals,” suggested Mr. Stamps, “is plenty. An’ ef ye take to raisin’ ’em as this un’s ben raised, ye ain’t makin’ much; an’ ef thar ain’t nothin’ to be made, Tom, what’s yer aim?”
He put it as if it was a conundrum without an answer.
“What’s yer aim, Tom?” he repeated, pleasantly, “ef thar ain’t nothin’ to be made?”
Tom’s honest face flamed into red which was almost purple, the veins swelled on his forehead, his indignation almost deprived him of his breath. He fell into a chair with a concussion which shook the building.
“Good—good Lord!” he exclaimed; “how I wish you weighed five hundred pounds.”
It is quite certain that if Stamps had, he would have demolished him utterly upon the spot, leaving him in such a condition that his remains would hardly have been a source of consolation to his friends. He pointed to the door.
“If you want to get out,” he said, “start. This is getting the better of me—and if it does——”