"You tell me this? You defend
him to me? Is that policy?"
Peter senior suddenly looked foolish. He had straightened himself to
glare at the upstart. Now he collapsed again.
"No, it _ain't_ policy," he confessed, "but I guess it's human nature.
My blood ain't quite dried up yet, and I can't sit quiet while anybody
blackguards my own flesh and bone. You tell me who said these things
about him!"
"I will not tell you."
"Don't you know I'm liable to have you discharged for impudence?"
"You can't discharge me, for I've already discharged myself. I'd
rather starve than serve one more day at your horrid old Hands."
"Horrid old Hands, eh? I can keep you from getting a job in any other
store."
"I don't want one. I've had enough of stores. I am not afraid of
anything you can do, Mr. Rolls. Though they do call you 'Saint Peter'
behind your back--meaning just the opposite--you haven't the keys of
heaven."
"You're an impudent young hussy."
"Perhaps. But you deserve impudence. You deserve worse, sir. A moment
ago I hated you. I--think I could have killed you. But--but now I
can't help admiring something big in you, that makes you defend your
son in spite of yourself, when it was policy to let me loathe him.
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