“Ah, you are there,” he cried, savagely, and with his face convulsed with passion. “It is a trick of yours to deprive me of my chance of distinguishing myself in this wretched hole.”
“It is nothing of the kind, Mr Terry,” said Syd, quietly; “but are you mad to go on like this before the men?”
“I should be mad if I held my tongue, and let every puppy of a boy be placed over me to insult me. I say the gun shall not be moved.”
“It is for the proper defence of the place.”
“It is a piece of insolence to annoy me.”
“You would have charge of the gun in its fresh place.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Terry, in his rage. “This is the gun’s place. It shall not be moved.”
“Silence, sir!” cried Syd, flushing up, and something of his father’s stern way giving him an older and firmer look. “I gave orders for the gun to be taken down. Mr Roylance, be smart with your men.”
“It shall not be done,” cried Terry. “I say—”
“And I say, sir,” said Syd in an angry whisper, “that if you are not silent, I’ll put you in arrest; yes, and tied hand and foot for your treachery of an hour or two ago.”