already turned themselves sour in the face, Sir, and whom a man can't
turn out of doors, Sir, to swindle money out of innocent people! I tell
you, young man, 'twon't work! I'll, be whipped if I give you a solitary
red cent!" And Christopher Burt, in a fine wrath, seated himself by the
table, and wiped his forehead.

Abel stood patiently and meekly under this gust of fury, and when it
was ended, and Mr. Burt was a little composed, he began quietly, as if
the indignation were the most natural thing in the world:

"No, Sir; it is not a subscription paper--"

"Not a subscription paper!" interrupted the old gentleman, lifting his
head and staring at him. "Why, what the deuce is it, then?"

"Why, Sir, as I was just saying," calmly returned Abel, "it is a personal
matter altogether."

"Eh! eh! what?" cried Mr. Burt, on the edge of another paroxysm, "what
the deuce does that mean? Who are you. Sir?"

"I am one of Mr. Gray's boys, Sir," replied Abel.

"What! what!" thundered Grandpa Burt, springing up suddenly, his mind
opening upon a fresh scent. "One of Mr. Gray's boys? How dare you, Sir,
come into my house? Who sent you here, Sir? What right have you to
intrude into this place, Sir? Hiram! Hiram!"

"Yes, Sir," answered the man, as he came across the hall.