“No! Stand aside!”
“Come, don’t be hard. I’m your brother.”
“Worse luck!” said the squire, whose face was flushed by the brandy he had taken.
“Never mind that. Let me have the hundred.”
“I tell you again, not a sou. Curse you! Will you let me come by?” cried the squire savagely; for the spirit had taken an awkward turn, and his face grew purple.
“Once more; will you let me have the money?”
“No!” roared the squire. “Get out of the way—dog!”
“Dog, yourself! Curse you for a mean hound!” cried Tom Candlish, with a savage look. “You don’t go by here till you’ve given me a cheque.”
The squire’s temper was fully roused now. He had restrained it before; though, several times when he had uttered a low laugh and kept on handling his cue, his anger had been seething, and ready to brim over.
Now, at his brother’s threat, that he should not pass until he had signed a cheque, he seized Tom by the shoulder as he blocked the way, and flung him aside.