“Where do you live?” demanded Mr. Ball.
“On Ferry Street.”
“What do they call you?” This was said with a contemptuous, rasping inflection that irritated the new scholar. His eyes twinkled, partly with annoyance and partly with mischief.
“They call me Jack, for the most part,”—then catching the titter that came from the girls’ side of the room, and frightened by the rising hurricane on the master’s face, he added quickly: “My name is John Dudley, sir.”
“Don’t you try to show your smartness on me, young man. You are a new-comer, and I let you off this time. Answer me that way again, and you will remember it as long as you live.” And the master glared at him like a savage bull about to toss somebody over a fence.
The new boy turned pale, and dropped his head.
“How old are you?” “Thirteen.”
“Have you ever been to school?”
“Three months.”
“Three months. Do you know how to read?”