“No, sir! I won't take a seat, and I don't come on no such business! No, sir!” He struck the table again, and the violence of his blow upset the inkstand.
Bartley saved himself by suddenly springing away. “Hollo here!” he shouted. “What do you mean by this infernal nonsense?”
“What do you mean,” retorted the drunkard, “by makin' up to my girl?”
“You're a fool,” cried Bartley, “and drunk!”
“I'll show you whether I'm a fool, and I'll show you whether I'm drunk,” said Morrison. He opened the door and beckoned to Bird, with an air of mysterious authority. “Young man! Come here!”
Bird was used to the indulgence with which Bartley treated Morrison's tipsy freaks, and supposed that he had been called by his consent to witness another agreement to a rise in Hannah's wages. He came quickly, to help get Morrison out of the way the sooner, and he was astonished to be met by Bartley with “I don't want you, Bird.”
“All right,” answered the boy, and he turned to go out of the door.
But Morrison had planted himself against it, and waved Bird austerely back. “I want you,” he said, with drunken impressiveness, “for a witness—wick—witness—while I ask Mr. Hubbard what he means by—”
“Hold your tongue!” cried Bartley. “Get out of this!” He advanced a pace or two toward Morrison who stood his ground without swerving.
“Now you—you keep quiet, Mr. Hubbard,” said Morrison, with a swift drunken change of mood, by which he passed from arrogant denunciation to a smooth, patronizing mastery of the situation. “I wish this thing all settled amic—ic—amelcabilly.”