On the next morning Stanley progressed more rapidly with his work, but there was no surcease in Gilvey’s abuse. It seemed to anger him that the youth made no mistakes this morning.
“Why haven’t ye peeled that other kettle full of pertaties?” he finally demanded, a note of triumph in his voice. “Didn’t ye hear me tell ye a dozen times?”
“Yes, I heard you,” quietly responded Stanley, his form trembling.
“Why didn’t ye do it then?” roared Gilvey, approaching, his eyes flashing.
“Because the cook told me you had made a mistake, and that I wasn’t to peel them,” politely replied Stanley, a cold little smile playing around his mouth as he faced Gilvey.
Infuriated at the smile Gilvey screamed an oath and flung himself upon the youth. The cook paused in amazement to see the two struggling. Before he could interfere the combatants whirled clear of the tables and fell with a heavy thud. When Stanley rose panting to his feet Gilvey remained motionless. From a cut in his head, received from the edge of a kettle, a thin stream of blood trickled across the floor Stanley had just washed.
