“Stop!” roared Dick, from whose face the puzzled look seemed to have departed, to give place to one of angry decision; and he stepped, hammer in hand, close up to his brother. “Look here, Max,” he cried, in a low, hoarse voice, “I don’t want to play Cain, and there ain’t much of the Abel about you; but my poor gal here,”—he placed his arm round her as he spoke, and she hid her hot, indignant face upon his shoulder—“my poor gal here, I say, once read to me when she was a little un about a blacksmith knocking a man down with his hammer because he insulted his daughter. Now, you’ve insulted my dear, sweet gal, as the very poorest and lowest labourer about here has a respectful word for, and even the very costers at the stalls; and you’ve made my blood bile—poor, and thin, and beggarly as it is. So, now then, this is my house till I leaves it. I ain’t Wat Tyler, and you ain’t a tax-gatherer, but if you ain’t gone in half a moment I’ll give you what for.”
“You scoundrel—you shall repent this!” cried Max.
But Dick made at him so menacingly that he hurried out of the house.
“Uncle,” began Tom, who had stopped behind.
“Off with you!” cried Dick sternly. “I won’t hear a word. No: nor you sha’n’t touch her. Jessie, say good-bye to him, and there’s an end of it. We’ll emigrate.”
“Oh, father, what have I done?” cried Jessie.
“Nothing, Jessie, but what is right, my own darling; and here, before your father and mother—”
“Tom!” shouted Max from without.
“I swear,” continued Tom, “that I’ll never give you up.”
“That’ll do,” said Dick, uncompromisingly. “He’s calling you. Out of my house!”