“Be a man, Phil, and bear your own share,” said Mr Shaw; “and no spite, because your words come back to you!”
The talk at the palings still went on, as the gig rolled quietly in the sandy by-road.
“Prater!” poor Hugh exclaimed. “What a name!”
“Yes; that is you,” said his uncle. “You know now what your nick-name will be. Every boy has one or another: and yours might have been worse, because you might have done many a worse thing to earn it.”
“But the usher, uncle?”
“What of him?”
“He should not have told about me.”
“Don’t call him ‘Prater the third,’ however. Bear your own share, as I said to Phil, and don’t meddle with another’s.”
Perhaps Mr Shaw hoped that through one of the boys the usher would get a new nick-name for his ill-nature in telling tales of a little boy, before he was so much as seen by his companions. He certainly put it into their heads, whether they would make use of it or not.
Mr Tooke was out, taking his evening ride; but Mr Shaw would not drive off till he had seen Mrs Watson, and introduced his younger nephew to her, observing to her that he was but a little fellow to come among such a number of rough boys. Mrs Watson smiled kindly at Hugh, and said she was glad he had a brother in the school, to prevent his feeling lonely at first. It would not take many days, she hoped, to make him feel quite at home. Mr Shaw slipped half-a-crown into Hugh’s hand, and whispered to him to try to keep it safe in his inner pocket Hugh ran after him to the door, to tell him he had five shillings already—safe in his box: but his uncle would not take back the half-crown. He thought that, in course of time, Hugh would want all the money he had.