The book called Atlantis had been looked at by most of the school, and Smithson major, not nearly such an agreeable boy as his brother, hit on a new nickname.
‘Atlantic Pork’s a good name for a swanker,’ he said. ‘You know the rotten meat they have in Chicago.’
This was in the playground before dinner. Quentin, who had to keep his mouth shut very tight these days, because, of course, a boy of ten cannot cry before other chaps, shut the book he was reading and looked up.
‘I won’t be called that,’ he said quietly.
‘Who said you wouldn’t?’ said Smithson major, who, after all, was only twelve. ‘I say you will.’
‘If you call me that I shall hit you,’ said Quentin, ‘as hard as I can.’
A roar of laughter went up, and cries of, ‘Poor old Smithson’—‘Apologise, Smithie, and leave the omnibus.’
‘And what should I be doing while you were hitting me?’ asked Smithson contemptuously.
