“But surely that gives him a claim to it.”
“D-n it! it's my cottage. You're not going to tell me I mayn't do what I like with it, I suppose.”
“I only said that his family having lived there so long gives him a claim.”
“A claim to what? These are some more of your cursed radical notions. I think they might teach you something better at Oxford.”
Tom was now perfectly cool, but withal in such a tremendous fury of excitement that he forgot the interests of his client altogether.
“I came here, sir,” he said, very quietly and slowly, “not to request your advice on my own account, or your opinion on the studies of Oxford, valuable as no doubt they are; I came to ask you to let this cottage to me, and I wish to have your answer.”
“I'll be d-d if I do; there's my answer.”
“Very well,” said Tom; “then I have only to wish you good morning. I am sorry to have wasted a day in the company of a man who sets up for a country gentleman with the tongue of a Thames bargee and the heart of a Jew pawn-broker.”
Mr. Wurley rushed to the bell and rang it furiously.
“By —!” he almost screamed, shaking his fist at Tom, “I'll have you horse-whipped out of my house;” and then poured forth a flood of uncomplimentary slang, ending in another pull at the bell, and “By —! I'll have you horse-whipped out of my house.”