"Wha—what's all this, Grit?" he asked, trying to rise from his chair. "How dare you treat my friend Travers so rudely?"
Grit's blood was up. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with resentment.
"Mr. Brandon," he said, "we have borne with you, my mother and I, but this has got to stop. When you bring one of your disreputable friends here to insult my mother, you've got me to deal with. Don't you dare bring that man here again!"
This was, I admit, rather a singular tone for a boy of Grit's age to assume, but it must be considered what provocation he had. Circumstances had made him feel older than he really was. For nearly five years he had been his mother's adviser, protector, and dependence, and he felt indignant through and through at the mean and dastardly course of his stepfather.
"Don't be sassy, Grit," said Brandon, slipping back into his chair. "I'm the master of this house."
"That is where you are mistaken, Mr. Brandon," said Grit.
"Perhaps you are," retorted Brandon, with mild sarcasm.
"This house has no master. My mother is the mistress and owner," said Grit.
"I'm goin' to flog you, Grit, when I feel better."
"I'm willing to wait," said Grit calmly.