“’Tis a fair name, my boy. Why blush for it?”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not!” gibed another boy. “What do you call it? Say, kid, you’re as red as a beet. What are you ashamed of?”
“Nothing. Is that all you want?”
“Leave us not in anger,” begged the first speaker. “Tell us, rather, of your doughty deeds upon yon trampled field of battle. Didst lay about thee mightily? Didst slay the first team with thine own good right hand?”
“No,” replied Harry, biting his lip to keep down the anger that was beginning to boil inside him.
“No? And what didst thou do, O Ensanguined Knight?”
“I minded my own business, for one thing,” answered the other shortly, turning to go on.
But some one seized his arm and spun him around again.
“Is that so?” asked the dark-complexioned youth threateningly. “Say, you’re a sort of a fresh kid, aren’t you?”