"Oh, it's a squealer—a dear little squealer! Has it brought its bib and tuck and feeding-bottle?" went on Newall, amid the laughter of his companions.
Harry tried to choke back the scalding tears, which were coursing down his cheeks.
"You're—you're a cruel brute!" came bursting from his lips.
"Oh, the little squealer's got a tongue, and it can speak! Come, come, walk!"
Harry did not stir. So Newall gave him a push which sent him over to one side of the throng, where another push sent him quickly back again. The sport was only at its commencement, when it was suddenly checked by Stanley Moncrief forcing his way through the throng, closely followed by Paul Percival.
They had been in the fives court while Plunger and Harry had been inside the schoolhouse, and it was not till their return to the ground that they caught sight of the throng of boys, of which Harry was the centre. On making their way towards it, Paul soon saw what was happening.
"They're baiting a fresher!" he exclaimed.
"And it's my young cousin!" cried Stanley.
He had no objection to a little fun at Harry's expense. Indeed, it was the ordeal which every new-comer to Garside had to go through in some form or other. But this seemed more than fun—more than a joke. Otherwise, his cousin would not be in tears. And it was not only the sight of his cousin in tears—it was the sight of his tormentor—Newall, whom he cordially disliked.
"Stop that!" he cried, with flashing eyes and clenched fists, as he reached the centre of the throng. "He's my cousin!"