The newcomer was a sturdy fellow about a year older than Angel. He had a
devil-may-care air about him, and he wore, at a rakish angle, a cap,
bearing the badge of a well-known school. He turned to me instantly.
"Well," he said, "you're a rum-lookin' pup."
I was rather abashed at such a greeting, but I held my ground. "My name is
John," I replied simply.
"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. "_John!_ Don't you know enough to give your
surname? Eh? I wish we had you at my school for a term. We'd lick you into
shape."
"His surname is Curzon, too," put in Angel, "same as mine."
"Very well, then," said the boy, "you're Curzon major, Curzon minor, and
Curzon minimus. Hear that, Curzon minimus?" he shouted, tweaking The
Seraph's ear.
"I say," said Angel, "you let him alone!" And I ran down the steps. The boy
stared.
"Don't you keep him in order?" he asked.
"Rather," replied Angel, "but I don't hurt him for nothing."
"I have two young brothers," said the boy, "and I hurt them for next to
nothing. Licks 'em into shape."
He looked around him and then added, "There's no fun here. Let's hook it to
my place, and I'll show you my rabbits. I've taken a fancy to you, and, if
you like, I'll let you call me by my first name. It's Simon. And I'll call
you by yours. That minor and minimus business is rather rotten when you're
friends. Come along."
Mrs. Handsomebody, we knew, was safe at a lecture on The Application of
Science to Human Relationships; Mary Ellen was doing her Friday's cleaning;
therefore, we set off with our new-found friend without fear of hindrance
from the female section of our household.