“Skilly,” said Courtenay; and the boys laughed again. All at once I felt a push with a foot, and if I had not suddenly stiffened my arms I should have gone down and broken some of the geraniums, but they escaped, and I leaped to my feet and faced them angrily.
“Here, what’s your name?” said Courtenay haughtily.
I swallowed my annoyance, and answered:
“Grant.”
“What a name for a boy!” said Courtenay. “I say, Phil, isn’t his hair cut short. He ought to have his ears trimmed too. Here, where are your father and mother?”
I felt a catch in my throat as I tried to answer steadily:
“Dead.”
“There, I told you so,” cried Philip. “He hasn’t got any father or mother. Didn’t you come out of the workhouse, pauper?”
“No,” I said steadily, as my fingers itched to strike him.
“Here, what was your father?” said Courtenay.