“That’s him,” replied Rafferty. “Says he’s the masther of us all. ‘Out you get,’ says he, ‘or it’s I that’ll be callin’ a p’leeceman to put you,’ says he. Flung it in me face that I’d stolen a laan mower. Me that’s ben on the estate man and boy for forty year. A laan mower! Sure, Miss Phyl, what would I be doin’ with a laan mower?”
Phyl turned from him and ran to the house. Pinckney and Hennessey were seated in the library when the door burst open and in came Phyl. Her eyes were bright and her lips were pale.
“You told me you would keep all the servants,” said she. “Rafferty tells me you have dismissed him.”
“I should think I had,” said Pinckney lightly, and not gauging the mad disturbance of the other, “and it’s lucky for him I haven’t put him in prison.”
The word prison was all that was wanted to fire the mine. Pinckney stood for a moment aghast at the change in the girl.
“I hate you,” she cried, coming a step closer to him. “I loathe you—master of us all, are you? Dare to touch any one here and I’ll burn the house down with my own hands—you—you—”
She paused for want of breath, her chest heaving and her hands clenched.
Then Pinckney exploded.
The good old fiery Pinckney blood was up. Oh, without any manner of doubt our ancestors are still able to speak, and it was old Roderick Pinckney—“Pepper Pinckney” was his nickname—that blazed out now. It was also the fire of youth answering the fire of youth.
“Damn it!” he cried. “I’ve come here to do my best—I don’t care—keep who you want—be robbed if you like it—I’m off—” He caught up all the sheets of paper he had been covering with figures and tore them across.