“And when I broke my arm, after getting up the rock after the gulls’ eggs, didn’t you tell me about the Spartan boys?”
“I did, Cob, I did.”
“Yes, of course you did,” I cried indignantly. “You were all three alike: always teaching me to bear pain and be courageous, and master my natural cowardice and be a man. Now didn’t you?”
“Ay, ay, ay! Captain Cob,” they chorused.
“And here,” I cried passionately, “after fighting all these years and making myself miserable so as to do exactly what you all taught me, now that there is a chance of showing that I know my lesson and have done well, you all treat me like a mollycoddle, and say to me by your looks: ‘you’re a poor cowardly little cub; go home to your mother and be nursed.’”
“Have you done with the soap?” said Uncle Dick, turning to Uncle Jack, as I stood there, feeling angry, passionate, excited, and carried out of myself.
“Eh?” said Uncle Jack staring.
“I say, have you done with the metaphorical soap? I want to wash my hands of him too.”
“It’s too bad, uncle,” I cried.
“Here, Bob,” said Uncle Dick in his grim way, “you take him in hand.”