Brownsmith's Boy Part 52

Of course I ought to have treated it as beneath my notice, but whoever reads this will have found out before now that I was very far from perfect; and as those two lads evidently saw my annoyance, and went on trying to increase it, I bent over my work in a vicious way, and kept on taking out the dead leaves and stems as if they were some of the enemies Mr Solomon had been talking about in the pits.

All at once, as I was bending down, I heard Courtenay, the elder boy, say:

"What did he say--back to school and be flogged?"

"Yes," said Philip aloud; "but he didn't know. They only flog workhouse boys and paupers."

"I say, though," said Courtenay, "who is that chap grubbing out the slugs and snails?"

My back was turned, and I went on with my work. "What! that chap I spoke to?" said Philip; "why, I told you. He's a pauper."

"Is he?"

"Yes, and Browny fetched him from the workhouse. Brought him home in the cart. He's going to be a caterpillar crusher."

I felt as if I should have liked to be a boy crusher, and have run at him with my fists clenched, and drubbed him till he roared for mercy, but I did not stir.

"Then what's he doing here?" said Courtenay in a sour, morose tone of voice. "He ought to be among the cabbages, and not here."

This was as if they were talking to themselves, but meant for me to hear.

"Old Browny was afraid to put him there for fear he'd begin wolfing them. I caught him as soon as he came. He got loose, and I found him in the peach-house eating the peaches, but I dropped on to him with the cane and made the beggar howl."

"Old Browny ought to look after him," said Courtenay.

"Don't I tell you he ran away. I expect Browny will have to put a dog-collar and chain on him, and drive a stake down in the kitchen-garden to keep him from eating the cabbages when he's caterpillaring. These workhouse boys are such hungry beggars."

"Put a muzzle on him like they do on a ferret," said Courtenay; and then they laughed together.

"Hasn't he got a rum phiz?" said Philip, who, I soon found, was the quicker with his tongue.

"Yes; don't talk so loud: he'll hear you. Just like a monkey," said Courtenay; and they laughed again.

"I say, is he going to stop?" said Courtenay.

"I suppose so. They want a boy to sc.r.a.pe the shovels and light the fires, and go up the hothouse chimneys to clear out the soot. He's just the sort for that."

"He'll have to polish Old Browny's boots, too."

"Yes; and wash Mother Browny's stockings. I say, Court, don't he look a hungry one?"

"Regular wolf," said Courtenay; and there was another laugh.

"I say," said Courtenay, "I don't believe he's a workhouse."

"He is, I tell you; Browny went and bought him yesterday. They sell 'em cheap. You can have as many as you like almost for nothing. They're glad to get rid of 'em."

"I wonder what they'd say to poor old Shock!" I thought to myself.

"I'm glad he isn't here."

"I don't care," said Courtenay; "I think he's a London street boy. He looks like it from the cut of his jib."

I paid not the slightest heed, but my heart beat fast and I could feel the perspiration standing all over my face.

"I don't care; he's a pauper. I wonder what Old Browny will feed him on."

"Skilly," said Courtenay; and the boys laughed again. All at once I felt a push with a foot, and if I had not suddenly stiffened my arms I should have gone down and broken some of the geraniums, but they escaped, and I leaped to my feet and faced them angrily.

"Here, what's your name?" said Courtenay haughtily.

I swallowed my annoyance, and answered:

"Grant."

"What a name for a boy!" said Courtenay. "I say, Phil, isn't his hair cut short. He ought to have his ears trimmed too. Here, where are your father and mother?"

I felt a catch in my throat as I tried to answer steadily:

"Dead."

"There, I told you so," cried Philip. "He hasn't got any father or mother. Didn't you come out of the workhouse, pauper?"

"No," I said steadily, as my fingers itched to strike him.

"Here, what was your father?" said Courtenay.

I did not answer.

"Do you hear? And say 'sir' when you speak," cried Courtenay with a brutal insolent manner that seemed to fit with his dark thin face. "I say, do you hear, boy?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Yes, _sir_, you beggar," cried Courtenay. "What was your father?"

"He don't know," cried Philip grinning. "Pauper boys don't know.

They're all mixed up together, and they call 'em Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, or names of streets or places, anything. He doesn't know what his father was. He was mixed up with a lot more."

"I'll make him answer," said Courtenay. "Here, what was your father?"

"An officer and a gentleman," I said proudly.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Philip, dancing about with delight, and hanging on to his brother, who laughed too. "Here's a game--a gardener's boy a gentleman! Oh my!"

I was sorry I had said those words, but they slipped out, and I stood there angry and mortified before my tormentors.

"I say, Court, don't he look like a gentleman? Look at the knees of his trousers, and his fists."

"Never mind," said Courtenay, "I want to bat. Look here, you, sir, can you play cricket?"