“And half the boys here, I dare say. Well, they are called Bettys till—”
“I am not a Betty,” cried Hugh, flashing again.
“They suppose you are, because you part your hair, and do as you have been used to do at home.”
“What business have they with my hair? I might as well call them Bruins for wearing theirs shaggy.”
“Very true. They will let you and your hair alone when they see what you are made of; and then Phil will—”
“He will own me when I don’t want it; and now, when he might help me, there he is, far off, never caring about what becomes of me!”
“O yes, he does. He is watching you all the time. You and he will have it all out some day before Christmas, and then you will see how he really cares about you. Really your hair is very long,—too like a girl’s. Shall I cut it for you?”
“I should like it,” said Hugh, “but I don’t want the boys to think I am afraid of them; or to begin giving up to them.”
“You are right there. We will let it alone now, and cut it when it suits our convenience.”
“What a nice place this is, to be sure!” cried Hugh, as the feeling of loneliness went off. “But the rooks do not make so much noise as I expected.”