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"I don't care," said Courtenay; "I think he's a London street boy He

looks like it frohtest 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 Broill feed hiain All at once I

felt a push with a foot, and if I had not suddenly stiffened eraniums, but they

escaped, and I leaped to rily

"Here, what's your nahtily

I sed 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 ers itched to strike him

"Here, as 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?"