Sam uttered a low groan which made his mother shriek and fling herself down by him again.
“Oh, Mary! cook!” she cried, “help—help!”
“Yes, mum,” said the former; “shall I bring a dustpan and brush, and take up the bits?”
“No, no! Water—sponge—help!”
“Indeed, indeed, I did not break the vase,” pleaded Tom, as his uncle suddenly caught him by the collar and drew a gold-headed malacca cane from the umbrella-stand.
“I’ll soon see about that,” said Mr Brandon, with a fierce drawing-in of the breath.
“Yes; beat him, beat him well, James, the wretch, the cruel wretch, and then turn him out of the house.”
“Don’t you interfere,” cried Mr Brandon, with a snap. Then to Tom—“I suppose you’ll say you were not fighting?”
“Yes, sir, I was fighting; but Sam began at me, and all because I wouldn’t screen him to-day.”
“Hah! never mind that,” said Mr Brandon.