“Nonsense! Let’s look,” said the boy sharply, and quickly stepping forward to look at the writing. “’Tisn’t; it’s ‘Stanley,’ only my father has contracted the ‘ley’ into a dash. It’s a way he has.”
“Then it’s time he began to write plainly. Who’s to know what he means?”
“Any one,” said Stan quite as fiercely. “And look here; you wouldn’t speak of my father’s writing like that if he were here.”
“What!” roared the manager, giving the desk a tremendous bang with the big ebony ruler to frighten Stan, who began to perspire profusely, but not from alarm. His temper, that had been fast asleep, was aroused by the reception he was having, and feeling at once that life with this man would be unbearable, he spoke out at once boldly and defiantly.
“I spoke plainly enough,” he said haughtily, “and you know what I said.”
“Well,” cried the manager, “of all the insolent young coxcombs I ever encountered, you take the prize. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” said Stan; “my father’s manager.”
“Yes, sir, I am,” he roared; “and I know how to manage men, let alone cocky, conceited boys. Don’t you think you are coming here to lord it and set up your feathers, and crow and grow scarlet in the comb. I shall soon cut that for you, so just get ready to take your proper place at once. I’d have you to know that I have as much authority and am as much master in this solitary, out-of-the-way place as if I were a king.”
“Over the Chinese coolies, perhaps,” said Stan firmly, “but not over me.”
“What I—Why, the boy’s mad with conceit.”