That youth evidently seemed to expect that his speech would produce a far deeper impression than it did, for he looked quite angry when Stephen made no reply.
“Wretched little sneak!” the amiable one continued; “I suppose he’ll go peaching to his big brother. Never mind, we’ll pay you out, see if we don’t! Go and kiss your mammy, and tell your big brother what they did to little duckie Steevie, did they then? they shouldn’t! Give him a suck of his bottle! oh, my!” and he finished up with a most withering laugh. Then, suddenly remembering his errand, he walked up to the table, and said, “I want that inkpot!”
Now was Stephen’s time. He was just in the humour for an argument with this young Philistine.
“What for?”
“What’s that to you? give it up!”
“I shan’t give it up; Oliver said it was not to be taken.”
“What do you say?” yelled the small boy, almost beside himself with rage and astonishment. “It’s my brother’s ink, and I’m not to give it up,” said Stephen, shutting the top and keeping his hand on it.
It was enough! The patriarch of the Tadpoles knew his strong point was in words rather than action; but this could not be endured. At whatever risk, the dignity of his order must be maintained, and this insolent, mad new boy must be—kicked.
“I’ll kick you on the legs if you don’t give it up,” said the Tadpole, in a suppressed white heat.
Stephen said nothing, but kept his hand on the pot, and awaited what was to follow.