“Yes,” said Slegge, thrusting out his chin, “I mean fighting. You are new to this place, and you have been coming the stuck-up on the strength of your father being a poor half-pay Company’s colonel. Honourable East India Company indeed! Shabby set of sham soldiers got-up to look like the real.”
The face of the boy he addressed changed colour a little, and he drew a deep breath as he compressed his lips.
“And don’t you look at me like that,” continued Slegge, who was delighted to find a large audience gathering round him to listen while he gave one of the new boys a good setting down, “or you may find that, after I have done with you, you won’t be fit to show your ugly mug in the row of grinning boobies staring over the wall at a twopenny-halfpenny wild-beast show.”
“I don’t want to quarrel,” said the lad quietly.
“Oh, don’t you!” continued Slegge, with a sneering laugh. “Well, perhaps I do, and if I do I shall just give your master one for himself as well.”
“My master,” said the lad staring.
“Yes, your master, the nigger—Howdah, Squashee, or whatever he calls himself. Here! hi! you, Aziz Singh-Song, or whatever your name is, why don’t you dress up and go and get leave from the Doctor to ride the elephant in the procession? Your father is a mahout out there in India, isn’t he?”
The boy he addressed, who had just come up to lay his hand upon the shoulder of Severn, to whisper, “What’s the matter, Glyn?” started on hearing this address, and his dark face, which was about the tint of a young Spaniard’s, whom he resembled greatly in mien, flushed up and the lips closed very tightly, but only to part again and show his glistening white teeth. “My father—” he began.
“Bother! come on,” cried Severn, putting his arm round the other and half-pushing, half-dragging him through the crowd of lads who were clustering round in expectation of a coming set-to.
There was a low murmur as of disgust as the two lads elbowed their way through, whilst Slegge shouted after them.