“I see that you are intending to insult me,” said Dawkins, the more furiously, because he began to fear there might be some truth in the man's claims. “Mr. Prescott, I leave you to entertain your company yourself.”
And he threw on his hat and dashed out of the counting-room.
“Well,” said the pedler, drawing a long breath, “that's cool,—denyin' his own flesh and blood. Rather stuck up, ain't he?”
“He is, somewhat,” said Paul; “if I were you, I shouldn't be disposed to own him as a relation.”
“Darned ef I will!” said Jehoshaphat sturdily; “I have some pride, ef I am a pedler. Guess I'm as good as he, any day.”
XXVII.
MR. MUDGE'S FRIGHT.
Squire Newcome sat in a high-backed chair before the fire with his heels on the fender. He was engaged in solemnly perusing the leading editorial in the evening paper, when all at once the table at his side gave a sudden lurch, the lamp slid into his lap, setting the paper on fire, and, before the Squire realized his situation, the flames singed his whiskers, and made his face unpleasantly warm.
“Cre-a-tion!” he exclaimed, jumping briskly to his feet.