“Now, then,” said Barnaby, holding one fist to my face, while, with the other open hand he rubbed behind, “come out in the play-ground, Mr Cinderella, and see if I won’t drub you within an inch of your life.”
“It’s no use crying,” said I, soothingly: for I had not wished him to be flogged. “What’s done can’t be helped. Did it hurt you much?”
This intended consolation was taken for sarcasm. Barnaby stormed.
“Take it coolly,” observed I.
Barnaby waxed even more wroth.
“Better luck next time,” continued I, trying to soothe him.
Barnaby was outrageous—he shook his fist and ran into the play-ground, daring me to follow him. His threats had no weight with me; not wishing to remain indoors, I followed him in a minute or two, when I found him surrounded by the other boys, to whom he was in loud and vehement harangue.
“Cinderella, where’s your glass slippers?” cried the boys, as I made my appearance.
“Come out, you water-rat,” cried Barnaby, “you son of a cinder!”
“Come out and fight him, or else you’re a coward!” exclaimed the whole host, from Number 1 to Number 62, inclusive.