Albert could not speak, for he felt as if his brains and teeth were rattling about inside his head. The rest of the family hunched together by the door, the boys gaping idiotically, the girls in tears.
"Well, wot've you got to say fur yourself before I kick you round the table?"
"I'll write wot I please, surelye," growled Albert, trying rather unsuccessfully to resume his swagger.
"Oh, will you! Well, there'll be naun to prevent you when you're out of this house—and out you go to-night; I'll have no Radical hogs on my farm. I'm shut of you!"
"Fäather!" cried Tilly.
"Hold your tongue! Does anyone here think I'm going to have a Radical fur my son?—and a tedious lying traitor, too, wot helps his fäather's enemies, and busts up the purtiest election that wur ever fought at Rye. Do you say you didn't write those lousy verses wot have lost us everything?"
"No—I döan't say it. I did write 'em. But it's all your fault that I did—so you've no right to miscall me."
"My fault!"—Reuben's jaw dropped as he faced the upstart.
"Yes. You've allus treated me lik a dog, and laughed at my writing and all I wanted to do. Then chaps came along as didn't laugh, and promised me all sorts o' things if I'd write fur them."
"Wot sort o' things?"