“What is your name?” he asked.
“John Wall,” replied John. “My father is General Wall,” he added, in a tone of some importance.
“Do you live in Portville?”
“Yes.”
“Where have you been?”
“On a journey,” answered John, stiffly, thinking to himself that Walter was very impertinent. It did not occur to him that it is a poor rule that will not work both ways.
“What is your business?” John asked, preferring to question rather than be questioned. “Are you a peddler?”
“No,” said Walter, coolly. “Are you?”
John glared at his questioner feeling deeply insulted, and did not deign a reply. That he, the son of General Wall, the richest man in Portville, should be asked if he were a peddler was something his pride could not brook. Walter ought to have been annihilated by his look, but he stood it unflinchingly, secretly amused at the effectual manner in which he had silenced his questioner.