“Yes, you did,” said he, tightening the pressure, so as to make me catch my under lip in my teeth. “You knew well enough I was half through it.”
“I mean, I didn’t borrow it. I never saw the book,” I shrieked, truly enough too, for this was clearly a case of mistaken identity.
“Yes, you did, for I was told so.”
“I didn’t; oh, let me go!” I cried, twisting under the torture; “it wasn’t me!”
“I tell you it was;” another screw, and another dance and howl from me; “and what’s the use of you saying it wasn’t?”
“Indeed it wasn’t!” I yelled, for by this time I was on my knees, and half dead with agony. “Oh! You’ll break my arm! Oh! Oh!”
“Say you took it, then,” replied my tormentor.
“It wasn’t me,” I shrieked. “Oh! Yes it was! Let go!”
Then he let go, and catching me by the collar of my coat with one hand, pulled my ear with the other, saying—
“What do you mean by telling lies, you young cub?”