“Well, can’t you see?” cried my tormentor, watching me as I worked away and assumed ignorance of his presence.
“No,” said Bunce sturdily; “and seeing what a long, yellow, lizardly-looking wisp you are, Master Phil, if you two changed clothing I should pick you out as the pauper.”
“How dare you!” cried the boy fiercely.
“Mind the scythe,” shouted Bunce; “d’yer want to get cut?”
“You insolent old worm chopper, how dare you call me a pauper?”
“I didn’t call you a pauper,” said Bunce chuckling; “did I, Grant?”
“No,” I said.
“You’re a liar, you pauper!” cried the boy, who was furious. “I’ll tell papa—I’ll tell Sir Francis, and you shall both be discharged, you blackguards.”
“I’m just going to mow there, squire,” said Bunce, sharpening away at his scythe.
“Then you’ll wait till I choose to move.”