Wilfred's voice was harsh and unpleasant, and he looked at St. George in a way decidedly disagreeable.
George Edward went on whittling.
"Allen, it's no use to pretend that I'm not in an awful scrape by that little affair over at Sachem Hill. Goodness! why don't you speak to a chap?"
"I've nothing to say," observed St. George, proceeding with his work.
"Your tongue is ready enough generally," retorted Wilfred in a temper. "Now, if it suits you to be an oyster, it don't me. I'd rather you'd preach, infinitely."
"I don't do that," cried St. George, throwing down knife and stick, and turning a countenance by no means saintly upon his visitor. "You sha'n't stand there and throw that at me," he declared in a heat.
"I didn't say you did," said Wilfred coolly, "I only said I'd rather you would. So go on."
"It's none of my business what you do," cried St. George, "I'm not going to say a word about it."
"Confound you!" cried Wilfred irritably, flinging his long figure on the bench amongst the shavings, and pushing aside the tools that lay in the way. "Well, hear me, then—I'm in for it, and no mistake. Father is so angry just because I didn't report in time that night, that he threatens to pack me off to boarding-school. In fact, it's as good as decided, and I go next week. Now, you've got the whole."
He threw himself down to the floor as abruptly, plunged his hands in his pockets, and walked to the window.