“I'm on top!” exclaimed Bertie. “I'm on top, and I'm going to stay on top—don't you see? The game's in my hands; and if I please to get drunk, I get drunk. And you will take your orders and mind your own business. And what have you to say to that?”
“I presume, sir,” said Samuel, his voice almost a whisper, “I can leave your service.”
“Yes,” said the other—“and then either you'll starve, or else you'll go to somebody else who has money, and ask him to give you a job. And then you'll take your orders from him, and keep your opinions to yourself. Don't you see?”
“Yes,” said Samuel, lowering his eyes—“I see.”
“All right,” said Bertie; and he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Now, if you please,” said he, “you'll go back to Belle, wherever you've left her, and take her a message for me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Samuel.
“Tell her I'm through with her, and I don't want to see her again. I'll have a couple of hundred dollars a month sent to her so long as she lets me alone. If she writes to me or bothers me in any way, she'll get nothing. And that's all.”
“Yes, sir,” said Samuel.
“And as for you, this was all right for a joke, but it wouldn't bear repeating. From now on, you're the gardener's boy, and you'll not forget your place again.”
“Yes, sir,” said Samuel once more, and stood watching while his young master went into the house.