Once more Turkey drew near the window. What was my dismay and indignation to hear him utter the following words:
“If you weren’t your father’s son, Ranald, and my own old friend, I would serve you just the same.”
Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, who used to call himself my horse, behaving to me after this fashion; and, my evil ways having half made a sneak of me, I cried out:
“I’ll tell my father, Turkey.”
“I only wish you would, and then I should be no tell-tale if he asked me why, and I told him all about it. You young blackguard! You’re no gentleman! To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snowballs! I scorn you!”
“You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and you had no business to do that,” I said, plunging at any defence.
“I was not watching you. But if I had been, it would have been just as right as watching Hawkie. You ill-behaved creature! You’re a true minister’s son.”
“It’s a mean thing to do, Turkey,” I persisted, seeking to stir up my own anger and blow up my self-approval.
“I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying in the street because you had hit her with a dirty snowball. And then to go and smoke her and her poor grannie, till the old woman fell down in a faint or a fit, I don’t know which! You deserve a good pommelling yourself, I can tell you, Ranald. I’m ashamed of you.”
He turned to go away.