The Argosy — page 182: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

166 The Master of Greylands. ‘‘Go back to where you came from, insolent, upstart braggart,” were the words he finished up with. ‘You are no tme son of my brother Basil; ill-doing though he was, he was not a firebrand, striving to spread malignant dissension amid a peaceable community.” “Uncle James, I shall never go back until I have come to the bottom of this matter,” spoke the young man firmly: and, it may be, that his unruffled temper, his very calmness of bearing, only served to irritate all the more Mr. Castlemaine. ‘‘The best man of law that London will afford I shall summon to my aid: he must force you to show the title by which you hold possession of the estates; and we shall then see which has the most nght to it, you or I.” | The words inflamed Mr. Castlemaine almost to madness. With a fierce oath—and bad language, though common enough then, was what he was rarely, if ever, betrayed to use—he lifted his mght hand to strike. Anthony, startled, got away. ‘‘What have I done to merit this treatment, Uncle James?” he remonstrated. ‘Is it because I am a relative? You would not, for shame, so treat a stranger.” But the Master of Greylands, flinging back a word and look of utter contempt, went striding on his way, leaving his nephew alone. Now it happened that this contest was witnessed by the superin- tendent of the coastguard, Mr. Nettleby, who was walking along the path of the neighbouring field behind the intervening hedge, bare at that season. He could not hear the words that passed, but he saw they were angry ones, and that the Master of Greylands was in a foaming passion. Calling in at the Dolphin Inn, he related before one or two people what he had seen: and Anthony, when he returned, gave the history of the interview. “T’m sure I thought Mr, Castlemaine did strike you, sir,” persisted the officer. ‘No, but he would have liked to,” said Anthony. “I stepped back from his hand. It is very foolish of him.” **T think he would like to kill Mr. Anthony, for my part, by the way he treats him,” said John Bent. But the words were only spoken in the heat of partisanship, without actual meaning: just as we are all given to a hasty tongue on occasion. However, they were destined to be remembered afterwards by Greylands. Somewhat later, John Bent and his guest were standing at the front door, talking together of the general perplexity of things. The sun was setting in the west in beautiful clouds of rose colour and amber, showing the advance of evening. John began to think he had better be laying the cloth for the parlour dinner, unless he wanted his wife about him. And—here she was! her cherry-coloured ribbons right over his shoulder. At that moment, careering down the road on his way from Grey- ECORNICLOOO SS (C(O) in —_)