“You’re an idiot! I came here to see the flood rising.”
“At this end?” cried Richard, contemptuously. “No, you didn’t. You hid here because you saw me coming.”
“What! Hide from you!” cried Mark, defiantly. “I like that! Why should I hide from you, fiddler?”
“Because you felt what was coming out, and that I knew the miserable cheating act of which you have been guilty.”
“Here! what do you mean?” cried Mark, in a bullying tone, as he edged up, scowling, towards him, and looked down upon the meek musician, whom he felt he could at any moment pretty well crush.
“I mean that if poor sick Uncle James knew what I have just heard it would break his heart.”
“I don’t want to hear any cant about my father,” cried Mark, changing colour a little. “Tell me what you mean, or—”
He made a menacing gesture; but, to his surprise, Richard did not shrink.
“I mean that that wretched man has been to me about your debts.”
“About my debts? Oh, you mean Simpson about his bill. Well, I don’t want your help now. I can pay him. He must wait.”