He arose in his wrath and shook his bony fist in Don’s face. The youth looked down upon him scornfully, for the man would have been no match for him at all.
“Now don’t have a fit,” he said calmly. “I’m going to step ’round to Mrs. Hemingway’s after dinner, and get her to come up here and look after you. You’ll need her any way, in a few days.”
“It won’t matter! it won’t matter!” shrieked Uncle Arad, exasperated by the boy’s coolness. “It won’t matter, I s’pose, when I hev ter pay three dollars—three dollars, mind ye—fur a hull week’s extry work!”
He fairly stamped about the room in his fury.
“It don’t matter, eh, when I’ll have ter hire a man ter take your place? Be you crazy, Brandon Tarr?”
“Guess not,” responded Don, wiping the last dish and hanging up the towel to dry. “You must think me crazy, however. Do you s’pose I’d stayed here this season without wages?”
“Wages!” again shrieked the old man, to whom the thought of paying out a penny was positive pain, “Wages! an’ you a beggar—yes, sir, a beggar!—’pendent upon my bounty, as it were.”
Don smiled at this.
“I’m a pretty sturdy beggar, as they used to call ’em in the old days,” he said.
“Wal, any way, I’m your guardeen, an’ I’ll see if you’re goin’ jest when you like.”