“Humph!  I should think he was.  A great lazy lubber like him, living on his mother!” and Mr. Hardhand looked contemptuously at Bobby.

“I am not a lazy lubber,” interposed the insulted boy with spirit.

“Yes, you are.  Why don’t you go to work?”

“I do work.”

“No, you don’t; you waste your time paddling in the river.”

“I don’t.”

“You had better teach this boy manners too, marm,” said the creditor, who, like all men of small souls, was willing to take advantage of the power which the widow’s indebtedness gave him.  “He is saucy.”

“I should like to know who taught you manners, Mr. Hardhand,” replied Bobby, whose indignation was rapidly getting the better of his discretion.

“What!” growled Mr. Hardhand, aghast at this unwonted boldness.

“I heard what you said before I came in; and no decent man would go to the house of a poor woman to insult her.”

“Humph!  Mighty fine,” snarled the little old man, his gray eyes twinkling with malice.

“Don’t Bobby; don’t be saucy to the gentleman,” interposed his mother.

“Saucy, marm?  You ought to horsewhip him for it.  If you don’t, I will.”

“No, you won’t!” replied Bobby, shaking his head significantly.  “I can take care of myself.”

“Did any one ever hear such impudence!” gasped Mr. Hardhand.

“Don’t, Bobby, don’t,” pleaded the anxious mother.

“I should like to know what right you have to come here and abuse my mother,” continued Bobby, who could not restrain his anger.

“Your mother owes me money, and she don’t pay it, you young scoundrel!” answered Mr. Hardhand, foaming with rage.

“That is no reason why you should insult her.  You can call me what you please, but you shall not insult my mother while I’m round.”

“Your mother is a miserable woman, and—­”

“Say that again, and though you are an old man, I’ll hit you for it.  I’m big enough to protect my mother, and I’ll do it.”

Bobby doubled up his fists and edged up to Mr. Hardhand, fully determined to execute his threat if he repeated the offensive expression, or any other of a similar import.  He was roused to the highest pitch of anger, and felt as though he had just as lief die as live in defence of his mother’s good name.

I am not sure that I could excuse Bobby’s violence under any other circumstances.  He loved his mother—­as the novelists would say, he idolized her; and Mr. Hardhand had certainly applied some very offensive epithets to her—­epithets which no good son could calmly bear applied to a mother.  Besides, Bobby, though his heart was a large one, and was in the right place, had never been educated into those nice distinctions of moral right and wrong which control the judgment of wise and learned men.  He had an idea that violence, resistance with blows, was allowable in certain extreme cases; and he could conceive of no greater provocation than an insult to his mother.