This sally of wit drew forth a shout of laughter from Bobby Dawson, who forthwith settled in his mind that he would precious soon take the shine out of the new boy.
“But, I say, what is the fellow’s name?” asked Tommy.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” answered Bobby. “It’s Bracebridge; his Christian name is—let me see, I heard it, I know it’s one of your fancy romantic mamma’s pet-boy names—just what young ladies put in little children’s story-books. Oh, I have it now—Ernest—Ernest Bracebridge.”
“I don’t see that that is so very much out of the way either,” observed Bouldon; “I’ve known two or three Ernests who were not bad sorts of fellows. There was Ernest Hyde, who was a capital cricketer, and Ernest Eastgate, who was one of the best runners I ever met; still from what you tell me, I fully expect that this Ernest Bracebridge will turn out no great shakes.”
While the lads were speaking, the subject of their remarks returned to the playground. An unprejudiced person would certainly not have designated him as a muff. He was an active, well-built boy, of between twelve and thirteen years old. He had light-brown hair, curling slightly, with a fair complexion and a good colour. His mouth showed a good deal of firmness, and he had clear honest eyes, with no little amount of humour in them. He was dressed in a dark-blue jacket, white trousers, and a cloth cap. Dawson and Bouldon eyed him narrowly. What they thought of him, after a nearer scrutiny, they did not say. He stood at a little distance from the gymnasium, watching with very evident interest the exercises of the boys. He had, it seemed, when he first came in with the Doctor, been attracted with what he had seen, and had come back again as soon as he was at liberty. He drew nearer and nearer as he gained more and more confidence, till he got close up to where Dawson and Bouldon were swinging lazily on some cross-bars. Blackall was at that moment playing off some of his most difficult feats, such as I have already described.
“I say, young fellow, can you do anything like that?” said Tommy, addressing Ernest, and pointing at Blackall. “Dawson here swears there isn’t another fellow in England who can come up to him.”
“I beg your pardon, did you speak to me?” asked Ernest, looking at Tommy as if he considered the question had not been put in the most civil way.
“Yes, of course, young one, I did. There’s no one behind you, is there?” answered Tommy. “What’s more, too, I expect an answer.”
“Perhaps I might, with a little practice,” answered the new boy carelessly. “I’m rather fond of athletic exercises.”
“I’ll be content to see you get up that pole, young ’un,” observed Tommy, putting his tongue in his cheek. “Take care you don’t burn your fingers as you come down.”