I'll have you to know that you've got to beg my pardon, insulting me before that lazy, lying, idle convict, you miserable young whippersnapper!" "What!" said Nic, beside himself now with passion.

"How dare you! How dare you speak to me like that! Insult you--you common, foul-mouthed bully.

Go on with your work, sir.

I'm your master's son, and if I'd a horsewhip here instead of this gun, I'd lay it across your back." Brookes stooped, picked up the brush viciously, and rolled up his sleeves.
"Oh," he cried; "that's it, is it?
Horsewhip me, eh?
We'll soon see about that.

Here, you convict." "Do you want me to strike you ?" cried Nic.
"Yes; you'd better," growled the man, dropping on his knees.