“Then there is something more?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“What is it, then?” cried the old man, whose own temper was rapidly getting the mastery. “Speak out, sir, and let me hear whether you have any decent excuse to offer for your conduct. Do you hear?”
“Yes, uncle,” faltered the lad.
“Then speak, sir.”
“I—I can’t, uncle. Don’t ask me, please.”
“What! I will and do ask you, sir,” cried the old man, furiously: “and what is more, I will be told. I am the proper judge of your conduct. How dare you refuse to speak—how dare you tell me almost to my face that you will not answer my question?”
“I don’t tell you that, uncle,” cried the boy, passionately. “I only say I can’t tell you.”
“You obstinate young scoundrel! How dare you!” roared the old man, now almost beside himself with rage. “Tell me this instant. Why, then, did you engage in this disgraceful encounter?”
Aleck darted an imploring look at the old man, which seemed to be begging him piteously not to press for the answer, but in his furious outbreak the old man could not read it aright—could only set it down to stubbornness—and, completely overcome by the passion bubbling up to his brain, he started to his feet and pointed to the door, but only to dash his hand down upon the table the next moment.