“And ragged coat without any arms,” said Philip.
“And his motto is ‘Oh the poor workhouse boy!’” cried Courtenay.
“There, that will do, Grant,” said Mr Solomon. “Let these little boys amuse themselves. It won’t hurt us. Bring your basket.”
“Yes, take him away, Browny,” cried Philip.
“Ah, young fellows, your father will find out some day what nice boys you are! Come along, Grant and let these young gentlemen talk till they’re tired.”
“Yes, go on,” cried Philip; while I saw Courtenay turn yellow with rage at the cold bitter words Mr Solomon used. “Take away your pauper—take care of your gentleman—go and chain him up, and give him his skilly. Go on! take him to his kennel. Oh, I say, Courtenay—a gentleman! What a game!”
I followed Mr Solomon with my face wrinkled and lips tightened up, till he turned round and looked at me and then clapped his hand on my shoulder.
“Bah!” he said laughing; “you are not going to mind that, my lad. It isn’t worth a snap of the fingers. I wish, though, you hadn’t said anything about being a gentleman.”
“So do I, sir,” I said. “It slipped out, though, and I was sorry when it was too late.”
“Never mind; and don’t you leave your work for them. Now come and have a look at my cucumber house, and then—ha, ha, ha! there’s something better than skilly for dinner, my boy.”