“Syd!”
“They do, auntie—it’s the machine that tears up the old shreds at the mills—and saying grandpa ought to have been made Baron Shoddy.”
“My dear Syd!”
“And do you know what they call me?”
“No, no; and I don’t want to know, sir.”
“Young Devil’s Dust,” snarled the boy.
“Indeed!” said the lady, indignantly. “Loamborough was selected for your education because the pupils were supposed to be young gentlemen—aristocrats.”
“So they are,” grumbled the boy, “and that’s the worst of them. Stink with pride.”
“From envious poverty, Sydney, my child.”
“Oh, yes, they’re poor enough, some of ’em, and glad enough to borrow my tin.”