“I’m in the beastliest row, Poppet,” he said.
Poppet’s little, fair face was ashine with sympathy.
[24]
]“I’d like to hammer that Mr. Burnham,” she said. “How did it happen, Bunty?”
Bunty sat up and sighed. After all, it would be a relief to tell some one; and who better than the faithful Poppet?
“Well, you know Bully Hawkins?” he said.
“Oh yes,” said the little girl; and she did, excellently—by hearsay.
“Well, on Monday he was on the cricket pitch practising, and Tom Jackson was bowling him—he’d made him. And when I went down—I was crossing it to go up to Bruce—he jumped on me, and said I was to backstop. I said I wasn’t going to—why should I go after his blooming balls?—and he said he’d punch my head if I didn’t. And I said, ‘Yes, you do,’ and walked on to Bruce. We were going to play marbles. And he came after me, and hit me over the head and boxed my ears and twisted my arms.”
“Bully!” said Poppet, with gleaming eyes. “What did you do, Bunty? did you knock him down? I hope you made his nose bleed,—I’d—I’d have flattened him!”
Bunty gave her a look of scorn.
“He’s sixteen, and the size of a prize-fighter!” he said. “I’d have been half killed. No; Mr. Burnham was just a little way off, and I let [25] ]out a yell to him, [and he came] up and I told of him.”