"Huh!" ejaculated William. "I din' have any lunch worth speakin' of." He thrust aside the mental picture of two helpings of steak and three of rice pudding.
"You poor child," said the lady. "Come along. I'll give you your tea."
"Thanks," said William humbly and gratefully, trudging off with her in the direction of the village inn.
He felt torn between joy at the immediate prospect of a meal and pity for his unhappy home life. William, generally speaking, had only to say a thing to believe it. He saw himself now as the persecuted victim of a cruel and unsympathetic family, and the picture was not without a certain pleasure. William enjoyed filling the centre of the stage in any capacity whatsoever.
"LITTLE BOY," SHE SAID SOULFULLY, "YOU MUST
TELL ME ALL.... IF I REPORTED THE CASE TO THE
SOCIETY FOR PREVENTION OF CRUELTY TO
CHILDREN——"
"I suppose," said the lady uncertainly, as William consumed boiled eggs with relish, "that your family are kind to you."
"You needn't s'pose that," said William, his mouth full of bread-and-butter, his scowling gaze turned on her lugubriously. "You jus' needn't s'pose that. Not with my family."
"They surely aren't cruel to you?" said the lady in horror.
"Crule," said William with a shudder, "jus' isn't the word. All I say is, crule isn't the word."