"Well," snorted Shorty, as the two boys left for the night, "going to chum around with the son of your father's cook, are you?"
Hal whirled on his heel, his hand clenched, his knuckles standing out white and bony; then he checked the torrent of words that sprang to his lips and answered quietly, "Yes, I am."
"Going to take him to Sir George and Lady Bennington's city residence for the Easter Vac?" sneered Shorty.
The answer came again quietly, "Yes, I am"; then, after a brief interval, "if he will pay me the compliment of coming."
Shorty subsided; he had not expected this, and, truth to tell, he felt at that moment that his sneers had accomplished precisely the opposite effect to what he had intended; but Hal made no comment until just before they got into their beds; then he said evenly:
"Shorty, you and I are room-mates, we have been pals for over a year; we won't discuss Shag Larocque, for I see that we shall never agree about him."
"I hate a mongrel," sniffed Shorty; "this fellow is neither Indian nor white."
"He's more Indian than white, and better for it, too," said Hal; "but,
I say, Shorty—what nationality was your father?"
"Irish," said Shorty, with some pride.
"And your mother?" persisted Hal relentlessly.