Tommy, of course, had at once perceived the first shoots of the hapless
young man's baby passion as it sprang up in his heart--which did not
make it easier to bear, but still Mr. Babington stayed on.
"He'll never go, Bick," complained Tommy that afternoon, after his
remarks on Kingsmead. "I even tried smoking the other day, but he had a
handkerchief of yours that you left on the hall table, and was so bucked
that he barely noticed my iniquity. He _is_ a poisonous person!"
"Yes, I certainly preferred Mr. Catt--but you didn't like him either."
"How could anyone like a fellow named Catt? I nearly choked every time I
had to speak to him, and so did the Master." It was thus that the boy
designated and addressed Joyselle. "He used to call him Minet. I have
learned that rotten old multiplication-table, however, and Latin is
easy. I do wish," he went on, gnawing at an ancient bit of almond-rock
that he had acquired at the village sweetstuff shop at home, "that
mother had had me well whacked when I was a kid. It would have saved me
no end of trouble now."
Brigit laughed as she dabbed some cherry-coloured grease on her pointed
nails. "Poor old Tommy!"
The almond-rock was an impediment to fluency of conversation, but after
a moment Tommy mastered it and went on.
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