"Please, papa, it doesn't say infirm and bold—it says infirm and old—see, papa;" and little Jacob pointed with his finger to the place.
"Then you read damned badly, for you read it 'bold,' and it's 'old.' I expect you to read better than that—you read badly, damned badly."
"Please, papa, I read it 'old' the first time, and not 'bold.'"
"Then you mean to say I cannot trust my own ears, you little impertinent monkey. I say you read it 'bold,' and I heard you."
An elder person would have perceived that Mr. Ogden was ill, and humored him; and a child of a more yielding disposition would have submitted to the injustice, and acquiesced. But little Jacob had an instinctive hatred of injustice, and his whole nature rose in revolt. He had also made up his mind never to tell lies—less perhaps from principle than from a feeling that it was cowardly. The present was an occasion which roused these feelings in all their energy. He was required to utter a falsehood, and submit to an injustice.
"No, papa, I said 'old.' I didn't say 'bold' at all. It was you that heard wrong."
Mr. Ogden became white with anger. "Oh, I was mistaken, was I? Do you mean to say that I am deaf?"
"No, papa."
"Well, then, if I'm not deaf I have been lying. I am a liar, am I?"
The state of extreme nervous depression, in combination with irritability, under which Mr. Ogden's system was laboring that day, made him a dangerous man to contradict, and not by any means a pleasant antagonist in argument. But he was not altogether lost; he still kept some control over himself, in proof of which may be mentioned the fact that he simply dismissed little Jacob without even a box on the ear. "He deserves a good thrashing," said Mr. Ogden; "but if I were to begin with him I should nearly kill him, the little impudent scoundrel!"