No reply.
“Oh, well,” said Dexter; “if you don’t want to talk, I don’t.”
“I don’t want to talk to a boy like you,” said Edgar, without looking.
Dexter started, and stared hard.
“I’m not accustomed to associate with workhouse boys.”
Dexter flinched.
Not long back the idea of being a workhouse boy did not trouble him in the least. He knew that there were plenty of boys who were not workhouse boys, and seeing what freedom they enjoyed, and how much happier they seemed, something of the nature of envy had at times crept into his breast, but, on the whole, he had been very well contented till he commenced his residence at the doctor’s; and now all seemed changed.
“I’m not a workhouse boy,” he said hotly.
“Yes, you are,” retorted Edgar, looking at him hard, full in the face, for the first time. “I know where you came from, and why you were fetched.”
Dexter’s face was burning, and there was an angry look in his eyes, as he jumped up and took a couple of steps toward where Edgar sat back on the garden seat. But his pleasant look came back, and he held out his hand.