‘Yes,’ she said demurely, ‘I’m Sprats, and you’ve a cheek to call me so—who gave you leave, I’d like to know? What would you think if I told you that you’d look nice if you had a barrel-organ and a monkey on it? Ha! ha! had him there, hadn’t I, Boggles? Well, do you know where I am going, monkey-boy?’
Lucian sighed resignedly.
‘No,’ he answered.
‘Going to fetch you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t been to your lessons for two days, and you’re to go this instant minute.’
‘I don’t think I want any lessons to-day,’ replied Lucian.
‘Hear him!’ she said, making a grimace. ‘What do they do with little boys who won’t go to school, Boggles—eh?’
If Lucian had known more of a world with which he had never, poor child, had much opportunity of making acquaintance, he would have seen that Sprats was meditating mischief. Her eyes began to glitter: she smiled demurely.
‘Are you coming peaceably?’ she asked.
‘But I’m not coming at all,’ replied Lucian.
‘Aren’t you, though? We’ll soon settle that, won’t we, Boggles?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now then, monkey—off you go!’