“Go back; the son ought to stay with the father.”
“But I want to make amends,” Paul stammered.
“The swindler, the rogue,” was heard from the background.
“Go back,” said Douglas, with set teeth; “make him keep quiet, or he will do for himself.”
Then he began to whistle a march with all his might, in order not to hear the abuse, and walked off with a measured tread.
The old man was raging in the yard like a madman; he threw the stones about, swung the cart-pole in the air, and kicked with his feet right and left.
When he met Paul he wanted to seize him by the throat, but at that moment his mother rushed out of doors with a piercing cry and threw herself between them. She clung to Paul with both arms; she wanted to speak, but the fear of her husband lamed her tongue. She could only look at him.
“Pack of women!” he cried, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and turned away; but feeling obliged to vent his rage on somebody, he walked up to Michel Raudszus, who was slowly returning to his work.
“You dog, what are you gaping here for?” he shouted at him.
“I am working, sir,” he answered, and gave him a cutting glance from under his black brows.