Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it was ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if the indignation were the most natural thing in the world:
“No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper—”
“Not a subscription paper!” interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his head and staring at him. “Why, what the deuce is it, then?”
“Why, Sir, as I was just saying,” calmly returned Abel, “it is a personal matter altogether.”
“Eh! eh! what?” cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, “what the deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?”
“I am one of Mr. Gray’s boys, Sir,” replied Abel.
“What! what!” thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mind opening upon a fresh scent. “One of Mr. Gray’s boys? How dare you, Sir, come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you to intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!”
“Yes, Sir,” answered the man, as he came across the hall.
“Show this young man out.”
“He may have some message, Sir,” said Hiram, who had heard the preceding conversation.