This last epithet was thrown in in such a very gratuitous and offensive way, that Stephen did not exactly like it.
The small youth, however, finding himself in a bantering mood, pursued his questions with increasing venom.
“I suppose they call you Steenie at home?” he observed, with a sneer that was meant to be quite annihilating.
“No, they don’t,” replied Stephen; “mother calls me Steevie.”
“Oh, Steevie, does she? Well, Steevie, were you ever licked over the knuckles with a ruler?”
“No,” replied Stephen; “why?”
“Because you will be—I know who’ll do it, too, and kick you on the shins, too, if you’re cheeky!”
Stephen was quite at a loss whether to receive this piece of news in the light of information or a threat. He was inclined to believe it the latter; and as he was a rash youth, he somewhat tartly replied, “You won’t!”
The small boy looked astounded—not that he ever contemplated attempting the chastisement about which he had talked; but the idea of a new boy defying him, one of the chosen leaders of the Tadpoles, who had been at Saint Dominic’s two years, was amazing. He glared at the rash Stephen for half a minute, and then broke out, “Won’t I? that’s all! you see, you pretty little blubber boy! Yow-ow-ow! little sneak! why don’t you cut behind your mammy’s skirt, if you’re afraid? I would cry if I were you. Where’s his bottle? Poor infant! Yow-ow-boo-boo!”
This tornado, delivered with increasing vehemence and offensiveness, quite overpowered Stephen, who stared at the boy as if he had been a talking frog.