“I won’t take any notice of the ill-bred young cubs,” I said to myself angrily; and I stooped and arranged the pot in its place and went back for another, when whack! came another well-aimed piece, and hit me on the side of the cap.
“You—”
I stopped myself, as I banged down the pot in a rage—stopped words and act, for I was going to run towards the spot whence the clay seemed to have come.
“It’s only play after all,” I said to myself. “I’ll show them, pauper or no, that I’m above being annoyed by such a trifle as that.”
I moved a couple more pots, when something whizzed by my ear, and then I was hit on the shoulder by a little raw potato.
I wanted to run round to the back of the hornbeam hedge, which had been planted to shelter plants and not sharpshooters, but I restrained myself.
“Playing cricket makes them take such good aim,” I thought to myself, as a piece of clay hit me on the back again; and I worked hard to finish my task so as to get to the pit from which I was fetching the pots down to the grass walk where I was; and I had got to the last pot, when, in stooping to put it in its place, plop came a soft lump of clay on the nape of my neck, and began to slip under my collar.
Down went the pot, and my cap on to the plant, and I turned sharp round, certain now that the missiles had been sent, not from the shelter hedge nor the gooseberry bushes, but from the wall, and there, sure enough, with his head and shoulders above the top, was my assailant.
My angry look changed to a bland smile as I saw the ragged straw hat with the hair standing out of the top, and the grubby face of Shock looking at me with his eyes twinkling and the skin all round wrinkled, while the rest of his face was sour.
“Why, Shock!” I cried; “who’d have thought of seeing you? How did you get there?”