Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, "I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you're an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?"The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.

Tom." Mrs. Sprye's tone was severe. "I expect you to look after this boy, not encourage him to go about brawling in the street. In broad daylight!"Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed.