“What’s your name?”
“Thomas Jones.”
“You needn’t mind about the Thomas up here. Where have you come from?”
“Do you mean, where do I live, or where have I been just now?” I inquired, anxious to avoid any misunderstanding.
“Look here,” said he, “hadn’t you better take a seat, if you want to tell me all your family history? I’m sure it’s very interesting, but it’s rather late in the day to begin now. Where have you come from, not originally, but just now?”
I flushed up very much at this polite rebuke. Whatever made every one so anxious to assume that I was an ass?
“Pridgin’s,” said I. “I’m his fag, and he’s having a tea party.”
“Oh,” said the youth; “who’s there?”
“Only Tempest and Wales,” I replied, feeling more at my ease.
“No one else?”