“‘I didn’t choose the name I bear,
It’s not my fault, you see.
My parents fond they were the ones
Who tacked it onto me.
I’ve done my best for many years
And tried to hide my shame,
But now the awful secret’s out:
Abijah is my na-a-a-ame!’”
As the final wail died away into silence, Monty jumped from his chair, seized his cap and faced his tormentors, his cheeks very, very red. “You—you think you’re funny, don’t you?” he stammered. “Well, you aren’t! You’re a lot of—of—of——” But words failed him, and he strode to the door. There, however, eloquence returned. He encompassed the trio in a look of withering contempt. “You make me sick!” he said.
The door crashed behind him, and he hurried down the stairs, his cheeks still burning, and plunged off into the lamplit gloom. “Idiots!” he muttered savagely. “Fresh kids!”