“I thought Mrs Mostyn told you to go up and cut it?” said Ellis pompously; “and I heard you tell her how you should do it?”
“Or have it done, sir. Here, up with you, John.”
John Grange felt annoyed at the other’s manner in the presence of the bailiff. There was a tone—a hectoring way—which nettled him the more that they were precisely equal in status at the great gardens; and, besides, there were Mary and old Tummus’s words. He had, he knew, let this rather overbearing fellow-servant step in front of him again and again, and this morning he felt ready to resent it, as the blood came into his cheeks.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” cried Barnett. “Up with you!”
“If it was your orders, why don’t you go?” retorted Grange.
Barnett burst into a hoarse fit of laughter, and turned to the bailiff.
“Hear that, sir? He’s afraid. Ha-ha-ha! Well, well! I did think he had some pluck.”
“Perhaps I have pluck enough,” said the young man, “even if it is an awkward job, but I don’t see why I’m to be bullied into doing your work.”
“I thought so,” continued Barnett, “white feather! Talk away, John, you can’t hide it now.”
Old Tummus showed his yellow stumps.