“I’ll go and see,” he said. “Good-night, you fellows.”
All was quiet when he reached his room, but one of the candles, ineffectually extinguished, was still smoking, and when he looked to Eden’s bed he saw by the gaslight that shone through the open door, that the child was awake, and crying bitterly.
“What’s the matter, Eden?” he said kindly, sitting down upon his bed.
“If you peach,” said Harpour and Jones together; “you know what you’ll get.”
“Have you fellows been bullying poor little Eden?” asked Walter indignantly.
“I’ve not,” and “I’ve not,” said Anthony and Franklin, who were better than the rest in every way; and “I haven’t touched the fellow, Evson,” said Cradock, who meant no harm, and at Walter’s earnest request had never again annoyed Eden since the first night.
“Poor little Eden—poor little fiddlestick,” said Jones, “it does the young cub good.”
“Send him home to his grandmamma, and let him have his bib and his night-cap,” growled Harpour; “is he made of butter, and are you afraid of his melting, you Evson, that you make such a fuss with him? You want your lickings yourself, and shall have them if you don’t look out.”
“I don’t care what you do to me, Harpour,” rejoined Walter, “and I don’t think you’ll do very much. But I do tell you that it’s a blackguard shame for a great big fellow like you to torment a little delicate chap like Eden; and what’s more, you shan’t do it.”
“Shan’t! my patience. I like that I why, who is to prevent me?”