“What’s your father?”
Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he fixed his attention upon a fair-haired boy of about his own size who was standing at the end of the parallel bars. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The fair boy looked at Probyn.
“Damn it!” said Probyn. “I asked you a question, Mr. Simon Peter.”
Peter continued disregardful. “Hasn’t this school got a flagstaff?” he asked generally.
Probyn came closer to him and gripped him by the shoulder. “I asked you a question, Mr. Simon Peter. What is your father?”
It was a question Peter could not answer because for some obscure reason he could not bring himself to say that his father was dead. If ever he said that, he knew his father would be dead. But what else could he say of his father? So he seemed to shrink a little and remained mute. “We’ll have to cross-examine you,” said Probyn, and shook him.
The fair boy came in front of Peter. It was clear he had great confidence in Probyn. He had a fat, smooth, round face that Peter disliked.
“Simon Peter,” he said. “Answer up.”
“What is your father?” said Probyn.