The rage had departed as quickly as it came, and the young man went down on one knee by Trevor, who was half-stunned, but recovered himself quickly, and got up.
“No. I’m not much hurt,” he said, hoarsely.
“You made me do it, sir,” said Humphrey, pitifully. “You shouldn’t have laid hands on me, sir—it made me mad.”
“Made you mad!” said Trevor, angrily. “This is a pretty way to serve your master.”
“You’re no master of mine, sir, from now,” cried Humphrey. “I can’t stand to serve you no more. I’d have stuck to you, sir, through thick and thin, if you’d been a gentleman to me, but—”
“Do you dare to say I’ve not been a gentleman to you, you scoundrel?” cried Trevor, menacingly, as he clenched his fists.
“Now, don’t ’ee, sir,” cried Humphrey, appealingly. “I don’t want to hurt you, and if you drive me to it I shall do you a mischief.”
“You thick-headed, jealous dolt!” cried Trevor, restraining himself with difficulty. “How can you be such an ass?”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” cried Humphrey, “not so much as that silly old woman who has set it all going.”
“Then it is all true?” cried Trevor, angrily. “Humphrey,” he said, “you’re as great a fool as that mother of yours; and—there, I’ll speak out, though you don’t deserve it: as to little Polly, you great dolt, I never said a tender word to her in my life.”