“What will Monsieur Prosper say when he knows it? He expects great things of you now the troupe’s broken up.”
“Glad it’s gone to pieces,” half savagely remarked the youngster. “I don’t want any more of that. What’s more, I won’t pick pockets or cheat at cards, or that sort of thing, for old Prosper or you either.”
“Oh! alas!” came from the bed, but whether in repentance or disappointment it would be hard to say.
“Now,” said the boy, in a tone of quiet determination, “I’ve been Jack Chills long enough; tell me what my real name is.”
“My dear nephew——”
“If you’re really my uncle, you must know, and if you won’t tell, I’ll empty the ice water all over you.”
“And kill me?”
“No; it won’t kill you, but it’s awful cold,” said the boy, as he advanced towards the bed with a large pitcher in his hand. “Come, now, I must be off before sunrise. Don’t tell me any whopper now. Out with it.”
“Oh!” burst in half-frightened accents from the helpless red-face; but then a very different look began to creep across it.
“Barnaby Vernon, my boy.”