“Spider?”
“Yes, uncle; because I’ve got such long legs.”
“Worse and worse,” cried the old man. “To fight for that! It is childish.”
“Oh, I didn’t fight for that, uncle!”
“What for, then, pray, sir?”
“Sometimes they lay wait for me and hide behind a smack or the harbour wall, and pelt me with shells and the nasty offal left about by the fishermen.”
“Disgusting! The insolent young dogs! They deserve to be flogged. So that is why you fought this morning?”
“Sometimes they throw pebbles and cobble stones, uncle,” said the boy, evasively. “And they’re so clever with them; they throw so well. I don’t like to be hit and hurt, uncle. I suppose I’ve got a bad temper. I do keep it under so long as they call me names and throw nasty, soft things, but when a stone hits me and hurts, something inside my chest seems to get loose, and I feel hot and burning. I want to hurt whoever threw as much as he hurt me.”
“What!” cried the old man. “Haven’t I taught you, sir, that you must be above resenting the attacks of the vulgar herd?”
“Yes, uncle.”