“There’s only one big stand of hardwood in this town,” he said, “and I’ll see you in damnation before I’ll let you buy that!”
“Why?”
The red patches beside his nose began to flame. “Don’t come back at me with your ‘whys’! I’ll tell you why you can’t buy! It’s because you’ll be handing over money to that”—(I never heard coarser oaths; my uncle fairly choked on them)—“to Zebulon Kingsley.”
“I know the lot belongs to Judge Kingsley. I saw the sign on the fence and I happened to meet the judge right there and had some talk with him.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you have been dickering with that—”
I broke in on his list of names. “My concern has ordered me to buy hardwood and I’m buying. I have no quarrel with Judge Kingsley.”
“By the Great Jedux, you have! Don’t you dare to tell me you have forgotten! You have got a quarrel with him. D——n you, look out that you don’t start one with me!”
“I have come in here to mind my own business—”
“Condemn your ha’slet!” he cried. “No wonder you didn’t dare to come to my house last night! No wonder you’re fighting shy of me to-day!”
In spite of his anger, I felt a sudden sense of relief. I did not need to waste effort and time on minor falsehoods, trying to explain why I did not come to his house; I could devote all my attention to my main lie.