“Now then; write another directly,” he cried; “and if you dare to—Here, what are you going to do?” he roared, as Esau took hold of the sheet of paper containing the errors.
“Going to write it over again, sir.”
“Write it over again, you miserable impostor!” he cried, as he snatched the paper back and laid a leaden weight upon it. “I’ll teach you to waste my time and paper gossiping—that’s what it means.”
“Here, what are you going to do?” cried Esau, as Mr Dempster seized him by the collar.
“I’ll show you what I’m going to do, you idle young scoundrel,” cried Mr Dempster, and he reached out his hand to take his stout cane from where it lay across his hat.
“Here, don’t you hit me,” cried Esau; and he tried to get away, as I sat breathless, watching all that was going on, and thinking that Mr Dempster dared not use the walking-cane in the way he seemed to threaten. Esau evidently thought he would, for he struggled hard now, but in vain, and he was dragged towards the chair. Then, as pulling seemed no use, the lad changed his tactics, and he darted forward to make for the door, just as Mr Dempster’s hand was touching the stick, which he did not secure, for the jerk he received sent cane and hat off the chair on to the floor.
“You dog!” roared Dempster, as the hat went on to the oilcloth with a hollow bang.
“Don’t you hit me!” cried Esau, struggling wildly to escape; and the next moment, as they swayed to and fro, I heard a strange crushing sound, and on looking to see the cause, there lay Mr Dempster’s beautiful guinea-and-a-half hat crushed into a shapeless, battered mass.
“Ah!” roared Mr Dempster, “you dog; you did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t,” cried Esau; “it was your foot did it.”