“I don’t abuse my father!” retorted Tom hotly; “but I say it was an infernal shame!”
“He knew what a blackguard you are, Tommy. Ah! that’s a good stroke: six!”
“Blackguard, eh? Come, I like that. Because I am open and above-board, and you are about the most underhanded ruffian that ever lived, I’m a blackguard, and you are only Squire Luke. Why, you sneaking—”
“Don’t call names, Tom,” said the squire, laughing huskily, with his heavy face bloated and red from the wine he had taken. “Little boy, younger brother, if you are rude I may use the stick in the shape of a billiard cue.”
“I only wish you would,” said Tom, grinding his teeth as he played, striking the balls viciously, and scoring now every time.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” cried the squire; “going to win, are you? We shall see.”
“Win? Curse the game! I could give you fifty out of a hundred, and beat you easily. Look here, are you going to let me have that money?”
“No, I am not; mind your play.”
“Then I’ll have it somehow.”
“Burglary?”