The words came in short sharp tones, and the speaker’s dark eyes seemed to flash. The effect was marvellous.
Mike began to turn the handle at a rapid rate, winding up the rope till the pair of hooks used for grasping the great hogsheads rattled with their chains against the pulley wheels of the crane, and a shout came from the warehouse,—
“Whatcher doing of? Hold hard!”
“Stop, sir!” cried the stern-looking man to Mike, just as Jem appeared at the upper doorway and looked down.
“Oh!” he ejaculated. “Didn’t know as you was there, sir.”
“It is disgraceful, Lindon. The moment my back is turned you leave your desk to come and waste the men’s time. I am ashamed of you.”
Lindon’s forehead grew more wrinkled as Josiah Christmas, merchant of Bristol city, and his maternal uncle, walked into the office, whither the lad followed slowly, looking stubborn and ill-used, for Mike Bannock’s poison was at work, and in his youthful ignorance and folly, he felt too angry to attempt a frank explanation.
In fact, just then one idea pervaded his mind—two ideas—that his uncle was a tyrant, and that he ought to strike against his tyranny and be free.