“Well, sir, what do you want?” Jacquelin asked, haughtily.
“Take off your coat.”
It was the form of order given to negroes when they were to be thrashed. Jacquelin’s face flushed.
“What for?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll take it off for you. I mean to cut these buttons off.”
“You can cut them off.” Jacquelin had grown quiet, and his face was white. Rupert drew nearer to him, his cheeks flushed and his breath coming quickly.
“I guess I can,” sneered the Provost. He came up to the lounge, pushing Rupert aside, who interposed between them. He leaned over and cut the buttons from the jacket, one by one.
“I’ll send these to my girl,” he said, tauntingly—“Unless you want them for yours,” he added, with a meaning laugh. Jacquelin controlled himself to speak quietly.
“Tell your master that some day I will call him to account for this outrage.”
“Young puppies bark, but don’t bite,” sneered the Provost.