"I don't care," said Courtenay; "I think he's a London street boy. He
looks like it from the cut of his jib."
I paid not the slightest heed, but my heart beat fast and I could feel
the perspiration standing all over my face.
"I don't care; he's a pauper. I wonder what Old Browny will feed him
on."
"Skilly," said Courtenay; and the boys laughed again. All at once I
felt a push with a foot, and if I had not suddenly stiffened my arms I
should have gone down and broken some of the geraniums, but they
escaped, and I leaped to my feet and faced them angrily.
"Here, what's your name?" said Courtenay haughtily.
I swallowed my annoyance, and answered: "Grant."
"What a name for a boy!" said Courtenay. "I say, Phil, isn't his hair
cut short. He ought to have his ears trimmed too. Here, where are your
father and mother?"
I felt a catch in my throat as I tried to answer steadily: "Dead."
"There, I told you so," cried Philip. "He hasn't got any father or
mother. Didn't you come out of the workhouse, pauper?"
"No," I said steadily, as my fingers itched to strike him.
"Here, what was your father?" said Courtenay.
I did not answer.
"Do you hear? And say `sir' when you speak," cried Courtenay with a
brutal insolent manner that seemed to fit with his dark thin face. "I
say, do you hear, boy?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Yes, sir, you beggar," cried Courtenay. "What was your father?"
"He don't know," cried Philip grinning. "Pauper boys don't know.
They're all mixed up together, and they call 'em Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, or names of streets or places, anything. He doesn't know what
his father was. He was mixed up with a lot more."
"I'll make him answer," said Courtenay. "Here, what was your father?"
"An officer and a gentleman," I said proudly.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Philip, dancing about with delight, and hanging on
to his brother, who laughed too. "Here's a game--a gardener's boy a
gentleman! Oh my!"
I was sorry I had said those words, but they slipped out, and I stood
there angry and mortified before my tormentors.
"I say, Court, don't he look like a gentleman? Look at the knees of his
trousers, and his fists."
"Never mind," said Courtenay, "I want to bat. Look here, you, sir, can
you play cricket?"
"Yes," I said, "a little."
"Yes, sir, you beggar; how many more times am I to tell you! Come out
in the field. You've got to bowl for us. Here, catch!"
He threw a cricket-ball he had in his hand at me with all his might, and
in a nasty spiteful way, but I caught it, and in a jeering way Philip
shouted: "Well fielded. Here, come on, Court. We'll make the beggar run."