“Bring me some more water, do you hear?” said he angrily. “Be quick, or I’ll make you.”
But I now fully comprehended his condition and how powerless he was. My feelings, as I have before said, were anything but cordial towards him, and this renewed violence and threatening manner had its effect. I was now, I suppose, about twelve or thirteen years old—strong and active. I had more than once felt inclined to rebel, and measure my strength against his. Irritated, therefore, at his angry language, I replied—
“Go for the water yourself.”
“Ah!” sighed he, after a pause of some seconds, “that I might have expected. But let me once get you into my hands, I’ll make you remember it.”
“I care not if I were in your hands,” replied I; “I am as strong as you.” For I had thought so many a day, and meant to prove it.
“Indeed! Well, come here, and let us try.”
“No, no,” replied I, “I’m not such a fool as you say I am—not that I’m afraid of you; for I shall have an axe in my hand always ready, and you will not find another.”
“I wish that I had tossed you over the cliffs when you were a child,” said he, bitterly, “instead of nursing you and bringing you up.”
“Then why have you not been kind to me? As far back as I can remember you have always treated me ill; you have made me work for you; and yet never even spoken kindly to me. I have wanted to know things, and you have never answered my questions, but called me a fool, and told me to hold my tongue. You have made me hate you; and you have often told me how you hated me—you know you have.”
“It’s true, quite true,” replied he, as if talking to himself. “I have done all that he says, and I have hated him. But I have had cause. Come here, boy.”