“Oh!” I said, feeling much relieved.
“You’ll have to lick him. Regular old bully. Your name’s Frank, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“His name’s Eliezer. We call him Eely, because he’s such a lanky, thin, snaky chap. I say, his father’s a tailor in Cork Street, he’s got such lots of clothes in his box. He has a bob-tail coat and black kersey sit-upon-’ems, and a vesky with glass buttons, and all covered with embroidery. Such a dandy!—What’s your father?”
I did not answer for a few moments, and he looked at me sharply.
“Dead,” I said in a low voice.
“Oh!” said my companion softly too. “I didn’t know.”
“He was shot—out in India—Chillianwallah,” I said.—“Died of his wounds.”
“Oh, I am sorry! I wish my father had been there.”
“Why?”