“Couldn’t yer, couldn’t yer!” cried Dawes, thrusting forward his handsome, furious face, and squaring his fist.
“Have you finished?” cried the old man, strutting. “Get off about your business, and don’t come here tipsy in the morning.”
Dawes turned his big frame slowly upon him.
“Tipsy!” he said. “Who’s tipsy? I’m no more tipsy than you are!”
“We’ve heard that song before,” snapped the old man. “Now you get off, and don’t be long about it. Comin’ here with your rowdying.”
The smith looked down contemptuously on his employer. His hands, large, and grimy, and yet well shaped for his labour, worked restlessly. Paul remembered they were the hands of Clara’s husband, and a flash of hate went through him.
“Get out before you’re turned out!” snapped Thomas Jordan.
“Why, who’ll turn me out?
