“What’s that?” asked Hearn, rubbing his arm—for Wolfe’s grasp had not been a light one.
“What’s that!” repeated Barrington, scornfully. “What a precious young fool you must be, not to know. Who’s your mother?”
“She lives over there,” answered Hearn, taking the question literally, and nodding beyond the wood.
“Oh!” said Barrington, screwing up his mouth. “What’s her name? And what’s yours?”
“Mrs. Hearn. Mine’s Archibald.”
“Good, Mr. Archibald. You shall be my fag. That is, my servant. And you’ll do every earthly thing that I order you to do. And mind you do it smartly, or may be that girl’s face of yours will show out rather blue sometimes.”
“I shall not be anybody’s servant,” returned Archie, in his mild, inoffensive way.
“Won’t you! You’ll tell me another tale before this time to-morrow. Did you ever get licked into next week?”
The child made no answer. He began to think the new fellow might be in earnest, and gazed up at him in doubt.