“Right, Mas’ Don,” said the man; “but if I was you,” he murmured hoarsely, as Jem went into the warehouse, “I’d strike for liberty. I knows all about it. When your mother come to live with your uncle she give him all your father’s money, and he put it into the business. I know. I used to work here when you first come, only a little un, and a nice little un you was, just after your poor father died.”
Don’s brow wrinkled as he looked searchingly at the man.
“You’ve a right to half there is here, Mas’ Don; but the old man’s grabbing of it all for his gal, Miss Kitty, and has made your mother and you reg’lar servants.”
“It is not true, Mike. My uncle has behaved very kindly to my mother and me. He has invested my money, and given me a home when I was left an orphan.”
“Kick!”
That is the nearest approach to the sound of Mike’s derisive laugh, one which made the lad frown and dart at him an angry look.
“Why, who told you that, my lad?”
“My mother, over and over again.”
“Ah, poor thing, for the sake o’ peace and quietness. Don’t you believe it, my lad. You’ve been werry kind to me, and begged me on again here when I’ve been ’most starving, and many’s the shillin’ you’ve give me, Mas’ Don, to buy comforts, or I wouldn’t say to you what I does now, and werry welcome a shilling would be to-day, Mas’ Don.”
“I haven’t any money, Mike.”