"What name?"

"Sinclair."

"Oh, I've heard of him.--And your people are always at home. Lucky
beggar!" He was silent a moment watching Roy unlace his boot. Then he
asked suddenly, in a voice that tried to sound casual: "I say--have you
told any of the other boys--about India--and your Mother?"

"No--why? Is there any harm?" Roy was on the defensive at once.

"Well--no. With the right sort, it wouldn't make a scrap of difference.
But you can see what some of 'em are like--Bennet Ma. and his crew.
Making a dead set at that poor blighter, just because he isn't their
colour----"

Roy started. "Was it only because of _that_?" he asked with emphasis.

"'Course it was. Plain as a pike-staff. I suppose they'd bullied him
into cheeking them. And they were hacking him on to his knees--forcing
him to salaam." Twin sparks sprang alight in his eyes. "That sort of
thing--makes me feel like a kettle on the boil. Wish I'd _had_ a boiling
kettle to empty over Bennet."

"So do I--the mean Scab! And he's pinched your bicycle."

"No fear! You bet we'll find it round the corner. He wouldn't have the
spunk to go right off with it. But look here--what I mean is"--hesitant,
yet resolute, he harked back to the main point--"if any of that lot
came to know--about India and--your mother, well--they're proper