But he said nothing further about going away, knowing that it would only anger the old man. Before the dishes were cleared away after the meal, there was the sound of wheels at the gate, and in a moment somebody knocked sharply.
Old Arad himself arose and hobbled to the door, admitting “Square” Holt into the miserable den of a kitchen. If it had been the President himself, the old man would not have opened the “best room.”
“Go aout an’ take the square’s boss ’roun’ ter the shed,” harshly commanded Uncle Arad, and Brandon did as he was bidden, vaguely suspecting that something was brewing.
When he came into the kitchen again after doing the errand, the parrot beaked judge was ready for him.
“Young man,” began the judge severely, “your uncle, Mr. Tarr, who has done so much for you for the past four years, tells me that you have made a sorry return for all his kindness and bounty.”
“In what?” demanded Brandon rather sharply, for he considered this interference on the justice’s part as wholly uncalled for.
“Is that the way you speak to your elders, young man?” cried the judge, aghast. “Have you no respect for gray hairs?”
“I do not see why I should respect you, Mr. Holt,” replied Don, with some temper. “You’ve never given me cause to and I consider that your questions and remarks are entirely unwarranted. I propose to go away from my uncle’s house (to whom, by the way, my father paid three dollars per week board for me up to last fall, and for whom I have done the work of a regularly hired hand during most of the time I have been here) I propose to go away, I say, and nothing you or uncle can say will stop me!”
“Hoighty toighty, young man!” cried the judge; “do you realize to whom you are speaking?”
“Yes, I do,” responded Brandon hotly. “To one who is known, far and wide, as the meanest man in Scituate!”