"I choose to sort," returned Cyril.
"But you must not sort in the face of the master's orders; or, if you do, I must go over them again."
"That's right; praise up yourself!" foamed Cyril. "Of course you are an efficient sorter, and I am a bad one."
"You might be as good a sorter as any one, if you chose to give it proper time and attention. What a temper you are in this morning! What's the matter?"
"The matter is, that I have submitted to your rule long enough, but I'll do it no longer," was the reply of Cyril, whose anger was gathering strength, and whose ill feeling towards William, deep down in his heart from long ago, had had envy added to it of late.
William made no reply. He carefully swept the dozens that Cyril had made up, farther down the counter, that they might be in a stronger light.
"What's that for?" cried Cyril. "How dare you meddle with my work? They are done as well as you can do them, any day."
"Now, where's the use of flying into this passion, Cyril? What's it for? Do you suppose I go over your work again for pleasure, or to find fault with it? I do it because the master has ordered me to make up every dozen that goes out; and if you do it first of all, it is sheer waste of time. See here," added William, holding two or three pairs towards him, "these will not do for firsts."
Angry Cyril! He was quite beside himself with anger. It was not this trifling matter in the daily business that would have excited him; but Mr. Ashley's rejection, his words altogether, had turned Cyril's blood into gall; and this was made the outlet. He dashed the gloves out of William's hand to the farthest corner of the room, and struck him a powerful blow on the chest. It caused William to stagger: he was unprepared for it; but whether he would have returned it must remain uncertain. Before there was time or opportunity, Cyril found himself whirled backwards by a hand as powerful as his own; and a voice of stern authority was demanding the meaning of the scene.
The hand, the voice, were those of the master.