“You—you—shall smart for this,” he mumbled. “As for you, sir, never enter my house—”
“Be off!” roared Dick; and he made at his brother again. “Be off, you artificial sham!”
But Tom, with a look of bitter mortification in his face, restrained him; and Max, clinging to Fred, hurried out of the door, leaving Mrs Shingle trembling in a chair, where she had sunk; while Jessie knelt beside her, white as ashes, and holding her hand.
It was an ignoble plight, made more absurd by Dick, who suddenly ran to the fireplace and took the tongs, with which he picked up a handkerchief, and ran to the door.
“Here, Saint Maximilian!” he shouted, “you’ve left your weeper;” and he threw the tongs out with a crash into the hall.
“Take care!” cried a familiar voice; “I haven’t done anything.”
“What, Hopper, old man!” cried Dick, “you there?”
“Yes, I am, and heard it all—all I could,” he added, stumping into the room.
Dick threw himself laughing into an easy chair, as he heard the door bang; but started up directly, as he saw Tom standing silent and mortified in the middle of the room.
“Thankye, Tom,” he cried, as he held out his hand, which the young man took for a moment and then dropped. “Ah! you’re put out, of course; and I don’t wonder. It’s enough to rile any young fellow with stuff in him; and you’ve got that, and acted like a man.”