“Who be sending ye to school in France?”
“My mother,” responded Boy.
“Poor little devil! May God help yer,” said Rattling Jack with hoarse solemnity; “for ye’ll come back never no more!”
“Oh yes; I shall come back for the holidays, I suppose,” said Boy practically.
“Stow that!” said Jack, with a sudden stentorian vigour which was quite alarming. “What’s ’olidays! Yes, ye’ll come back mebbe for ’olidays, but it won’t be you!”
“Won’t be me?” echoed Boy wonderingly. “It must be me!”
“It can’t be!” persisted Jack,—“France ain’t a turnin’-out establishment for Englishmen. Never a bit of it! Ye’ll go to France a poor decent little chap enough as yer seems to be, but ye’ll never come back that way,—ye’ll come back a little mincin’, lyin’ rascal, parly-vooin’ like a hass, an’ hoppin’ like a frog! That’s what ye’ll be. Ye’ll be afraid of cold water, and skeered-like at the sight of yer own skin—and ye’ll never look any livin’ creetur in the face agin! And ye’ll be a dirty, mean, creepy-crawly little Frenchy—that’s what ye’ll be!”
“No, I won’t!” cried Boy, quite appalled at this vivid picture of himself in futuro. “Don’t say I will! I know you’ve travelled a lot, and that you’ve seen France——”
“Seen France!” And Rattling Jack snorted indignation at the air. “Rather! And seen Frenchmen too! And licked them into the bottom of their own shinin’ boots! Seen France! Yes!—it’s a great place for frogs—hoppin’ round, and all alive oh!
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?