Young Brenckenberg gave him a look of supreme contempt, and, fuming like a turkey-cock, strutted to the door.
"One after the other," thought Leo, and turned to the painter.
When it dawned on him that it was now his turn to be dealt with, he jumped up and fell on the bosom of the returned squire, weeping hysterically.
"Kick me out!" he cried, in a voice of lamentation. "Kick me out like the rest ... I deserve it.... I am a loafer ... a sluggard.... I waste God's daylight.... My cows all have too long legs.... So the critics say ... but I swear it isn't true.... I take my oath to you, an honourable man, that cows have long legs."
"Of course, dear old fellow; calm yourself."
"Now I have given up painting them with legs at all ... I make them legless, like seals.... Serves those blackguard critics right.... But you are my salvation.... Say you will be on my side--promise."
Leo promised everything as he pushed the drunkard firmly back in his chair.
"You will see to the man, uncle."
He growled out an insolent answer.
Leo felt the blood mount hotly to his temples. But a voice within him said, "Keep quiet. Don't embitter this hour of homecoming." So he forced himself to calmness as he said--