“Ho, ho, ho! here’s a game!” cried the dark boy, throwing himself down on the velvety turf and kicking out his legs in his delight.
“My father isn’t a poor parson,” continued Green contemptuously; “and if any of you fellows like to call on me during the holidays, any one will show you Alderman Green’s big house on Clapham Common. We keep a butler, footman, coachman, and three gardeners.”
“And the gardeners make all the beds,” said Tomlins, at which there was another laugh.
“You’re a little idiot, Tomlins,” said Green loftily.
“Yes, sir; but I can’t help it,” said the boy meekly. “You see my father never brought home turtle soup from the Lord Mayor’s dinner so as to make me big and fat.”
“You won’t be happy till I’ve rubbed your ugly snub nose against the next tree,” cried Green. “Get up, you gipsy-looking cub!”
He stepped quickly as he spoke to where the boy still lay upon the green and kicked him viciously.
“Oh!” yelled the boy, who began to writhe now in earnest as he fought hard to control himself, but in vain, for he rose to his knees at last with the tears coming fast, and then limped slowly along, sobbing bitterly.
“Serve you right,” cried Green. “Teach you not to be so jolly saucy. Now then, none of your sham. I didn’t hurt you much. Go on.”
“I—I can’t yet,” sobbed the boy.