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is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since;” said he; “and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains; and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes since; you rat!”
Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse; I never had an idea of replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult。
“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked。
“I was reading。”
“Show the book。”
I returned to the window and fetched it thence。
“You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent; mama says; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg; and not to live here with gentlemen’s children like us; and eat the same meals we do; and wear clothes at our mama’s expense。 Now; I’ll teach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they are mine; all the house belongs to me; or will do in a few years。 Go and stand by the door; out of the way of the mirror and the windows。”
I did so; not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it; I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough; however; the volume was flung; it hit me; and I fell; striking my head against the door and cutting it。 The cut bled; the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its climax; other feelings succeeded。
“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said。 “You are like a murderer—you are like a slave…driver—you are like the Roman emperors!”
I
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