tranquilly, "and I have determined to do the thing thoroughly. If he
cannot like me, it is better for him to hate me, and may save trouble.
Tie him up, Brutus."

"Bear away!" cried Mr. Aiken harshly. "Mind yourself, sir."

His warning, however, was late in coming. I had sprung at my father
before the sentence was finished. It was almost the only time I knew him
to miscalculate. He must have been taken unaware, for he stepped backward
too quickly, and collided with the very chair he had quitted. It shook
his balance for the moment, so that he thrust a hand behind him to
recover himself, and in the same instant I had the volume of Rabelais. I
leapt for the open doorway, but Ned Aiken was there to intercept me.
Brutus was up behind me with his great hands clamping down on my
shoulders. I turned and hurled the volume in the fireplace.

My father caught it out almost before it landed. With all the
deliberation of a connoisseur examining an old and rare edition, he
turned the pages with his slim fingers. There, as he had said, was
the paper, with the same red seals that I had admired the previous
evening. He placed it slowly in his inside pocket, and tossed the book
on the floor.

"Now here's a pretty kettle of fish," said Mr. Aiken.

My father was watching me thoughtfully.

"Take your hands off him, Brutus," he said, "and bring out the horse."

For a second longer we stood motionless, each watching the other. Then my