“I’m not your guardian! If I were, I would send you a hundred miles from the city, and make you work on a farm. I’m the guardian of this note, though; and it must be paid, or I’ll trustee your salary. When you owe your aunt a thousand dollars, you shall not fool away your money on champagne suppers. Pay the note!”
“The note don’t belong to you,” I added, doggedly, as I beat about me for the means of escaping from the uncomfortable dilemma.
“Don’t belong to me!” growled my uncle. “What do you mean by that?”
“How did the note come into your possession?”
“None of your business how it came into my possession, you puppy! Do you mean to insult me?”
“No, sir; but I think you mean to insult me.”
“Insult you!” sneered he. “Why, you young cub, I am your uncle, and old enough to be your grandfather!”
“You are not old enough to insult me.”
“You have said enough! Will you pay the note?” demanded he, impatiently.
He talked to me as though he were on the quarter-deck, while I belonged in the forecastle. He was not in the habit of permitting his positions to be disputed by those whom he regarded as his dependents or inferiors.