"I am come," said Harry, "to accept Miss Messenger's offer."
"You seem pretty independent. However, that is the way with you working-men nowadays. I suppose you don't even pretend to feel any gratitude?"
"I don't pretend," said Harry pretty hotly, "to answer questions outside the work I have to do."
The chief looked at him as if he could, if he wished, and was not a Christian, annihilate him.
"Go, young man," he said presently, pointing to the door, "go to your work. Rudeness to his betters a working-man considers due to himself, I suppose. Go to your work."
Harry obeyed without a word, being in such a rage that he could not speak. When he reached his workshop, he found waiting to be mended an office-stool with a broken leg. I regret to report that this unhappy stool immediately became a stool with four broken legs and a kicked-out seat.
Harry was for the moment too strong for the furniture.
Not even the thought of Miss Kennedy's approbation could bring him comfort. He was an artisan, he worked by the piece—that was nothing. The galling thing was to realize that he must now behave to certain classes with a semblance of respect, because now he had his "betters."
The day before he was a gentleman who had no "betters." He was enriched by this addition to his possessions, and yet he was not grateful.