"Sorry to be late, sir," he said, as if he had been a private speaking to his colonel.
"It's 'im, Rat! 'E's come, Rat!" the Squad shouted. "Look at 'im!"
But The Rat would not look, and did not even move.
"What's the matter?" said Marco, with less ceremony than a private would have shown. "There's no use in my coming here if you don't want me."
"'E's got a grouch on 'cos you're late!" called out the head of the line. "No doin' nothin' when 'e's got a grouch on."
"I sha'n't try to do anything," said Marco, his boy-face setting itself into good stubborn lines. "That's not what I came here for. I came to drill. I've been with my father. He comes first. I can't join the Squad if he doesn't come first. We're not on active service, and we're not in barracks."
Then The Rat moved sharply and turned to look at him.
"I thought you weren't coming at all!" he snapped and growled at once. "My father said you wouldn't. He said you were a young swell for all your patched clothes. He said your father would think he was a swell, even if he was only a penny-a-liner on newspapers, and he wouldn't let you have anything to do with a vagabond and a nuisance. Nobody begged you to join. Your father can go to blazes!"
"Don't you speak in that way about my father," said Marco, quite quietly, "because I can't knock you down."
"I'll get up and let you!" began The Rat, immediately white and raging. "I can stand up with two sticks. I'll get up and let you!"