There was
no mistaking him. He was a big, lumpy fellow, fifteen years of age,
with an untidy mouth, the spots of a premature adolescence and an air
of heavy self-importance. When he spoke, the rest fell into awed
attention.
"Hallo, new kid, what's your name?"
"Robert Stonehouse."
"Don't be so abrupt, my boy,"--a delighted titter from the small
fry--"say 'sir' when you answer me."
"I shan't."
The little colourless eyes widened in sheer incredulity. For a moment
the role of humorist was forgotten.
"Look here--no cheek, or I'll smack your head."
"He hasn't been properly brought up," one of the spotty youth's
companions remarked, not ill-naturedly. "Can't expect him to have
manners. He never had a father or a mother, poor darling----"
"Then where did he come from?"
"God made him."
"He told old Jaegers he'd never even heard of God."
"Dear, dear, what a naughty boy. He doesn't even say his prayers."
"But he lives with a lady called Christine----"
"How nice for him. Is she a pretty lady, Stonehouse?" Up till now
nothing had stirred in him. He hadn't cared. He had indeed felt
something of the superiority which they suspected in him. If that was
all they could do---- Now, suddenly, the blood rushed to the roots of
his fair hair.
"Shut up. You leave Christine alone."
The big boy was too delighted to be angry.
"Hoity-toity. She must be a high-stepper. No trespassers allowed--eh,
what? young cockalorum.
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