As Tom stood thus, he received a poke on the shoulder with the end of a stick, and looking round saw old Squire Harry.
The Squire’s face was threatening. “Turn about, d—n ye, what were you saying to that boy o’ mine?”
“Nothin’ as I remember,” lied Tom, bluntly.
“Come, what was it?” said the hard old voice, sternly.
“I said Blackie’d be the better of a brushin-boot, that’s all, I mind.”
“You lie, I saw you look over your shoulder before you said it, and while he was talkin’ he saw me a-comin’, and he looked away—I caught ye at it, ye pair of false, pratin’ scoundrels; ye were talkin’ o’ me—come, what did he say, sirrah?”
“Narra word about ye.”
“You lie; out wi’ it, sir, or I’ll make your head sing like the church bell.”
And he shook his stick in his great tremulous fist, with a look that Tom well knew.
“Narra word about you from first to last,” said Tom; and he cursed and swore in support of his statement, for a violent master makes liars of his servants, and the servile vices crop up fast and rank under the shadow of tyranny.