"Nobody. I'm quite a stranger."
He spoke with a foreign accent, and Paul wondered who he could be. At the same time he could not help pitying the solitary boy. He would have rather a sorry time of it amongst the other "Gargoyles."
"Well, youngster"—a junior was always "a youngster" in the eyes of his senior—"if I can be of help to you at any time, don't be afraid to come to me. What is your name?"
"Hibbert—Tim Hibbert. And—and if you don't mind, I'd like to know yours?"
Paul told him his name, and they entered the grounds together. A number of the boys had already arrived. Some stood in small groups, talking and laughing about incidents that had happened during the vacation. Others were playing at leapfrog, or chasing each other from pillar to post.
Those nearest to the gates paused in their games as Paul entered, and stared at the hunchback. Newall, a senior, said something about "Percival and his camel." The remark was as cruel as offensive. Paul did not mind for himself, but he did for his companion. He glanced at Hibbert, and again noticed the delicate colouring mount to the pale cheek. He had evidently caught the sense of Newall's remark, too.
"They have rough speech as well as rough ways, haven't they?" the boy remarked quietly.
"Some of them—yes; but you mustn't mind that. They're not such a bad lot, take them altogether."
Newall was one of the most arrogant boys at Garside. He had a rough tongue, and loved to domineer. You will always find your Newalls in every public school, no matter where it be. They are terrors to the nervous, sensitive boy; but they always succeed in attracting to themselves followers, lads of like dispositions to themselves.
Paul knew well enough that Newall intended the remark for his benefit, but he paid no heed to it. He looked round the ground in the hope of finding Stanley Moncrief, but saw nothing of him.