Philip, as he entered the stable, saw Tom sitting on a kitchen chair, which had been transferred to the stable, engaged in reading a weekly paper. “What are you doing there, Tom?” he demanded, in an imperious tone. If Philip had asked in a civil tone, Tom would have answered him with civility, but the boy’s tone was offensive, and Tom was too spirited to bear it. “What’s that to you, Phil?” he retorted. “You’ll find out what it is!” answered Philip, angrily. “That’s just what I’m wanting to do.” “And don’t you presume to call me Phil, either.” “Why—isn’t it your name?” “Yes; but it isn’t for you to call me by it.” “What am I to call you, now?” “You can call me Master Philip, or Mr. Philip.” “Ho! ho! It’s a joke you’re playing on me!” “No, it isn’t. It is your duty to treat me with respect. But you haven’t answered my question.” “What is it?” “What are you doing there?” “Reading a paper. Can’t you see for yourself?” “That isn’t what my father pays you for. Go right to work.” “Shure, you want me to work day and night! That’s what Tom Calder won’t do for no man last of all for a boy like you!” “If you ain’t careful, my father will send you away.” “If he does, I’ll get another place soon,” said Tom, indifferently. “You’re an impudent loafer!” “The same to yourself,” said Tom, indifferently. After a little further altercation, Philip walked off in dudgeon. It was clear that he couldn’t bully Tom. CHAPTER XXXIII — STEALING THE BONDS Contrary to his usual custom, Philip spent the evening at home; and, as he must have something to occupy him, he spent it in reading. Usually, he cared very little for reading, and was prone to spend the evening out. Mrs. Ross regarded her son with approval, as she saw him steadily reading all the evening. “I do believe you’re getting studious, Phil,” she said. “I’m interested in a story,” remarked Phil. “How much better it is to spend the evening at home reading than to be gadding about?” said his mother. “Well, you know a boy can’t be always reading,” observed Philip. If Mrs. Ross had been a close observer, she might have noticed that Philip got over wonderfully few pages. Indeed, he sometimes held the book open at the same place for half an hour together. The fact was that Philip cared very little for reading, unless he could get hold of some highly sensational story about highwaymen or pirates. He simply used the book as a cover. The Colonel, his father, was sitting in a room which he called his office, opening out of the family sitting-room, and Philip had seated himself so that he could look into that room, and watch what his father was doing.