"Oh, do you?" Ingram said. "Well, then, you had better do it in the proper
way. See Miss Percival about it, will you?" He pressed his knees in as if
to continue his way.
Glyde, however, stood by the horse's head.
"I have seen Miss Percival about it, Mr. Ingram," he said. "I saw her--a
week ago. And now I've got to see you about it."
Ingram looked at him sharply--a sudden stiffening of the spine; spine
stiff and eyes sharp, acting together. What he saw made him the more
alert.
"What on earth do you mean?" he asked.
"I'll tell you," said Glyde. "I'm free of your service from this minute,
so I'll tell you. I say that you are a damned scoundrel, and that you know
it." A concentration of many grudges, kept very still, as by white heat,
characterised this remarkable speech.
Ingram blenched. "By George, my man," he said, "you'll have to make that
good."
Glyde said, "And I will. You have behaved, you are behaving, like a dog in
this house; and you're to take a dog's wages."
Ingram jumped in his saddle, rose in his stirrups. "By God," he said, "by
God--" but he said no more.
Glyde sprang up at him where he stood above his saddle, unseated--sprang
up at him, took him by the shoulders and then dropping, pulled him off his
horse.
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