“Nor I; and, if I did, I prefer the headache.”
“I am not sure whether I don’t agree with you,” said his father, smiling again.
When supper was over, Philip lounged about restlessly. Nothing could be done as yet—nothing, indeed, till his father had retired and was fairly asleep—and, in the meantime, he had to wait in suspense.
He strolled out to the stable without any definite object to take him there. He was in an unquiet, irritable frame of mind, which was likely to exhibit itself on the smallest provocation.
A boy of seventeen, Tom Calder by name, was employed by Colonel Ross to look after his two horses and attend to any errands or light duties that might be required about the house.
Philip, as he entered the stable, saw Tom sitting on a kitchen chair, which had been transferred to the stable, engaged in reading a weekly paper.
“What are you doing there, Tom?” he demanded, in an imperious tone.
If Philip had asked in a civil tone, Tom would have answered him with civility, but the boy’s tone was offensive, and Tom was too spirited to bear it.
“What’s that to you, Phil?” he retorted.
“You’ll find out what it is!” answered Philip, angrily.