Something in the tone struck David's sore nerves like a blow. He turned abruptly—
'Look here, John! I can't stand this kind of thing much longer. Hadn't we better part? You've learnt a lot here, and I'll see you get a good place. You—you rub it in too long!'
John stood still, his big rough hands beginning to shake, his pink cheeks turning a painful crimson.
'You—you never said a word to me!' he flung out at last, incoherently, resentfully.
'Said a word to you? What do you mean? I told you the truth, and I would have told you more, if you hadn't turned against me as though I had been the devil himself. Do you suppose you are the only person who came to grief because of that French time? Good God!'
The last words came out with a low exasperation. The young man leant against the counter, looking at his assistant with bitter, indignant eyes.
John first shrank from them, then his own were drawn to meet them. Even his slow perceptions, thus challenged, realised something of the truth. He gave way—as David might have made him give way long before, if his own misery had not made him painfully avoid any fresh shock of speech.
'Well!' said John, slowly, with a mighty effort; 'I'll not lay it agen you any more. I'll say that. But if you want to get rid of me, you can. Only you'll be put to 't wi' t' printing.'
The two young fellows surveyed each other. Then suddenly David said, pushing him to the door:
'You're a great ass, John—get out, and good night to you.'