“Lookye here, sir,” said Ike sturdily. “Is it likely as we two would take the fruit? Why, we’re always amongst it, and think no more of it than if it was so much stones and dirt. We ain’t thieves.”
“Look here,” said Sir Francis, suddenly taking a tack in another direction, “you own that you beat my son—my stepson,” he added correctively, “in that way?”
“Yes, Sir Francis,” I said, “I didn’t know who he was in the dark.”
“You couldn’t see him?”
“Only just, Sir Francis; and I hit him as hard as I could.”
“And you, my man, do you own that you struck my other stepson as hard as you could in the chest?”
“No!” cried Ike fiercely; and to the surprise of all he threw off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve, displaying a great red-brown mass of bone and muscle, and a mighty fist. “Lookye here, your worship. See there. Why, if I’d hit that boy with that there fist as hard as ever I could, there wouldn’t be no boy now, only a coroner’s inquess. Bah! I wonder at you, Sir Francis! There’s none of my marks on him, only where I gripped his arms. Take off your jacket, youngster, and show your pa.”
“How dare you!” cried Philip indignantly.
“Take off your jacket, sir!” roared Sir Francis, and trembling and flushing, Philip did as he was told, and at a second bidding rolled up his sleeves to show the marks of Ike’s fingers plainly enough.
Ike said nothing now, but uttered a low grunt.