"Always ready enough to throw out what doesn't belong to you," went
on Mr. Peabody grumbling. "Born in the poorhouse, you're in a fair
way to die there. If I didn't watch you every minute, you'd waste
more than I can save in a year."

Bob, his face buried in the roller towel, lost his temper at this
point.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, shut up!" he muttered.

But Mr. Peabody had heard. With a quickness that surprised even his
wife, for ordinarily he slouched his way around, he sprang from his
chair, reached the side of the unconscious Bob, and soundly boxed his
ears twice.

"I'll take no impudence from you!" he cried, enraged. "Here, come
back!" he yelled, as Bob started for the door. "You come back here
and sit down. When you don't come to the table, it will be because I
say so. Sit down, I say!"

Bob, his face livid, his ears ringing, dropped into a chair at the
table. Ethan continued to eat stolidly, and Betty kept her eyes
resolutely fastened on her plate.

"Just for that, you stay home from the Faulkner sale!" announced Mr.
Peabody who was more than ordinarily loquacious that morning. "I'll
find something for you to do this afternoon that'll keep your hands
busy, if not your tongue. Eat your breakfast. I'll have no mincing
over food at my table."