“What are you laughing at?” he says.
“I’m not laughing,” I said, feeling anything but in the humour for jocularity.
“Yes, you are, I tell you—take that!” and a smart box on the ear followed.
I writhed, but tried hard to suppress my ejaculation of pain.
“What’s that you called me?” demanded the bully.
“Nothing,” I faltered, rubbing my head.
“Yes, you did,” he said; “take that for telling a cram, and that for calling me names!” and suiting the action to the word he bestowed one cuff and one kick on my unoffending person, each of which I acknowledged by a howl.
“Now then,” said he, “what did you mean by borrowing Tom Groby’s Gulliver’s Travels yesterday when you knew I wanted to read it, eh?”
And he caught hold of my hand and gave my arm a suggestive preliminary screw.
“I didn’t,” I said.