“Silence, boy!” said Max, placing one hand in the breast of his glossy frock-coat, and scowling round at all in turn. “Does any one here think I’d disgrace my honourable wife by permitting such an alliance?”
“Nice brotherly behaviour, this!” cried Dick indignantly.
“Brotherly?” cried Max. “Sir, I disown all relationship with you. You’ve hung on to my skirts too long, and now I’ll be free of you. Miserable, grovelling beggar!”
“I never begged or borrowed of you,” said Dick.
“No; because I checked the impulse, or I should have had to keep you. And now you want to disgrace me and mine.”
“I’m sure no man could have been more industrious,” put in Mrs Shingle.
“Industrious?” cried Max, looking round at the shabby half workshop, half sitting-room. “Industrious? Yes, always idling in his wretched slough, instead of trying to improve his position—to get on. But I’ll have no more of it: leave this place you shall at once.”
“Oh, Mr Shingle—Uncle Max!” cried Jessie piteously, “it was all my fault: I ought to have known better. Don’t turn poor father and mother out. They work and try so hard.”
“Bah!” ejaculated Max contemptuously; while Tom made for Jessie, but a heavy arm was laid across his chest.
“Don’t—pray don’t,” sobbed Jessie, joining her hands and looking piteously up in the smooth, smug face. “Don’t do that, and I’ll promise never to see—never to see Tom. No, no: I can’t—I can’t—I can’t!” she cried, bursting into an agony of weeping.