"No, you'll not turn me out, for I'll go of my own accord," cried Phil, his subdued passion breaking suddenly forth. "I'll rub along somehow till Millie comes back, and then she shall choose between you and me. But mind, the moment I can offer her a decent home, no power of yours shall keep us apart. I'll have her then, whether you will or no."
Never before had Phil spoken to him in that manner. For a moment he was literally struck dumb with amazement. Then he shouted in a fury of rage and drunkenness:
"You dare to speak to me like that?"
"Yes, I dare," returned Phil, with flashing eyes.
"Then I'll—I'll—"
Rising from his chair, he staggered towards his nephew, who stood with his arms folded across his breast, biting his lips and breathing hard, as he watched his uncle's approach. But Phil was not a coward, and there was no trace of fear upon his countenance.
It was by no means a dignified or safe proceeding on Mr. Hunt's part. The floor appeared to be swaying beneath his feet, and he clutched hurriedly at the table, at the wall, at anything, in fact, that would support his unsteady steps. He was close upon Phil, and had raised his arm as if to strike him, when he suddenly lost his balance. To recover it, he grasped, as he thought, the little shelf on which Millie kept her books. Instead of that, however, his hand descended heavily upon Miss Crawford's drawing-box which had been placed there for safety, and which, being wider than the shelf, projected some little distance from it. There was a crash—down tumbled the box, and down went Richard Hunt at full length upon the floor.
It was useless to give vent to his anger in words. Phil silently picked up the scattered paints and pencils, and replaced them in the box.
His uncle made a few desperate struggles to regain his feet, but finding that impossible, he turned over on his side, and lay there a most deplorable object. He muttered a few incoherent words, but they gradually ceased, and, to his nephew's disgust, he was soon snoring heavily.
