The judge’s ample nasal organ flushed to the color of a well grown beet; but before he could reply old Arad put in his oar:
“What d’ye mean, ye little upstart?” (Fancy his calling Brandon little, who already stood a good three inches taller than himself!) “What d’ye mean, sayin’ that I was ever paid fur yer keep? Ye’ve been nuthin’ but an expense an’ trouble ter me ever since ye come here.”
“That’s an untruth, and you know it,” declared Don, who had quite lost his temper by this time, and did not behave himself in just the manner I should have preferred my hero to behave; but Brandon Tarr was a very human boy, and, I have found, heroes are much like other folks and not by any means perfect.
“Young man, mark my words!” sputtered “Square” Holt, “you will yet come to some bad end.”
“I’ll git all this aout o’ ye, afore I’m done with ye, Brandon Tarr,” declared Uncle Arad, “if I hev ter hire somebody ter lick ye.”
“You wouldn’t do that—you’re too stingy to hire anybody to ‘lick’ me,” responded Don tartly. “Now I don’t propose to listen to any more of this foolishness. I’m going away, and I’m going away tomorrow morning. I’ve eaten my last meal at this house, Uncle Arad!”
“Is that the way to speak to your guardian?” said the judge, with horror in his tone. “Mr. Tarr, you are too lenient with this young scoundrel. He should be sent to the State reform school as I suggested.”
“But then I wouldn’t get no work aout o’ him,” the farmer hastened to say. “I—I’ve got ter git the money back I’ve spent on him, ye know.”
Brandon laughed scornfully.
“I should like to know by what right you call him my guardian, Mr. Holt?” he asked.