"You're quite through,
and I can't waste any more time on you."
"Ye dinna mean it, lad. Ye canna mean it."
"On your way, Mac. I loathe arguments. And don't forget your check."
"I maun see yer faither aboot this. He'll nae stand for sic treatment
o' an auld employee."
Bryce's temper flared up. "You keep away from my father. You've
worried him enough in the past, you drunkard. If you go up to the
house to annoy my father with your pleadings, McTavish, I'll
manhandle you." He glanced at his watch. "The next train leaves for
the woods in twenty minutes. If you do not go back on it and behave
yourself, you can never go back to Cardigan woods."
"I will nae take charity from any man," McTavish thundered. "I'll nae
bother the owd man, an' I'll nae go back to yon woods to live on yer
bounty."
"Well, go somewhere, Mac, and be quick about it. Only--when you've
reformed, please come back. You'll be mighty welcome. Until then,
however, you're as popular with me--that is, in a business way--as a
wet dog."
"Ye're nae the man yer faither was," the woods-boss half sobbed. "Ye
hae a heart o' stone."
"You've been drunk for fifteen days--and I'm paying you for it, Mac,"
Bryce reminded him gently. "Don't leave your check behind. You'll
need it."
With a fine show of contempt and rage, McTavish tore the check into
strips and threw them at Bryce.
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