On this particular occasion Dick was not in the best of humor, for Mr. Maslin had just been savagely abusing him because he had taken a longer time than the old man had considered necessary to fetch certain supplies for the store from Slocum, a large town about ten miles distant. So when Luke flung the last remark at him he angrily retorted:
“Well, I’m not yours, at any rate.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Luke, in a disagreeable tone.
“Just what I said!” answered Dick, defiantly.
“Do you mean to say that you don’t intend to do anything I ask you to do?”
“That depends.”
“Depends on what?”
Luke advanced a step nearer the other, looking decidedly ugly.
“How you ask me,” replied Dick, setting down the pail to relieve his arm.
“I s’pose you’d like me to take my hat off to you, Dick Armstrong, and say please, and all that,” Luke returned, scowling darkly. “It strikes me you’re putting on too many frills for a charity boy.”