Thomas Jordan started out of his little glass office, and came running down the room.
“What’s a-matter, what’s a-matter?” he said, in his old man’s sharp voice.
“I’m just goin’ ter settle this little ——, that’s all,” said Dawes desperately.
“What do you mean?” snapped Thomas Jordan.
“What I say,” said Dawes, but he hung fire.
Morel was leaning against the counter, ashamed, half grinning.
“What’s it all about?” snapped Thomas Jordan.
“Couldn’t say,” said Paul, shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders.
“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?” said Dawes, beginning to sneer.
Mr. Jordan started, marched up to the smith, waving him off, thrusting his stout little figure at the man, saying:
“Get off my premises—get off!”
He seized and twitched Dawes’ arm.
“Come off!” said the smith, and with a jerk of the elbow he sent the little manufacturer staggering backwards.
Before anyone could help him, Thomas Jordan had collided with the flimsy spring-door. It had given way, and let him crash down the half-dozen steps into Fanny’s room. There was a second of amazement; then men and girls were running. Dawes stood a moment looking bitterly on the scene, then he took his departure.
