“I don’t know as it affected you any,” rejoined the boy, bitterly.
“Yes, ’t’as, too! Ain’t I got you on my hands, a-eatin’ of your head off, when there ain’t a sign of a chance o’ gittin’ any work aout o’ ye?”
“I reckon I’ve paid for my keep for more’n one year,” the other declared vehemently; “and up to the last time father went away he always paid you for my board—he told me so himself.”
“He did, did he?” exclaimed Uncle Arad, in anger. “Well, he——”
“Don’t you say my father lied!” cried the boy, his eyes flashing and his fists clenched threateningly. “If you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Well—I ain’t said so, hev I?” whined Uncle Arad, fairly routed by this vehemence. “Ain’t you a pretty boy to threaten an old man like me, Brandon Tarr?”
Brandon relapsed into sullen silence, and the old man went on:
“Mebbe Horace thought he paid your board, but the little money he ever give me never more’n ha’f covered the expense ye’ve been ter me, Don.”
His hearer sniffed contemptuously at this. He knew well enough that he had done a man’s work about the Tarr place in summer, and all the chores during winter before and after school hours, for the better part of three years, and had amply repaid any outlay the old man had made.
Old Arad Tarr was reckoned as a miser by his townsmen, and they were very nearly correct. By inheritance the farm never belonged to him, for he was the youngest son of old Abram Tarr, and had been started in business by his father when he was a young man, while his brother Ezra had the old homestead, as the eldest son should.