“I’d like to thrash you, within an inch of your life, you impudent young blackguard!” said Simon Moore, furiously.
“You’d better not try it,” said Tom, boldly.
“I hope, Mr. Sands,” said Moore, turning to the broker, “that you are not going to believe this young ragamuffin against me. It is a pretty state of things, if my word is to be disputed by such as he.”
“Mr. Moore,” said the broker, gravely, “I regret to say that, in this instance, I am forced to believe him rather than you. Wait a moment,”—seeing that Moore was going to interrupt him,—“it is only fair that I should give you my reason. Possibly you will remember one evening when, at an oyster-saloon, you and John concerted this very plot against Gilbert. I was in the next stall, and overheard all you both said. I was not, therefore, surprised to learn, upon my return, under what circumstances Gilbert had been discharged.”
Simon Moore and John looked at each other in silent dismay. Both remembered well the conversation alluded to.
“If I am the object of such suspicion,” blustered Moore, at length, “I don’t think I had better remain in your employ.”
“I approve your decision,” said the broker, gravely.
“I will leave at once, if you say so.”
Just then a young man entered the office.
“You are at liberty to do so,” said Mr. Sands. “I have already engaged this gentleman as your successor.”