He continued stamping with his refractory boots all the time he was talking to me, letting out occasionally behind, in spite of Miss Henniker.
"Who are you?
What's your name ?" he said.
"Fred Batchelor," I replied, deferentially.
"Batchelor, eh?
Are you a backward or a troublesome, eh ?" This was a poser.

I had never put the question to myself, and was wholly at a loss how to answer.

I told Flanagan so.
"Oh, but you're _bound_ to know!" he exclaimed.

"What did they send you here for, eh ?" Whereupon I was drawn out to narrate, greatly to Flanagan's satisfaction, the affair of Cad Prog and his baby sister.
"Hurrah!" said he, when I had done.

"Hurrah, you're a troublesome! That makes seven troublesomes, and only two backwards!" and in his jubilation he gave a specially vigorous kick out behind, and finally drove the obstinate boot home.
"Yes," said he, "there was no end of discussion about it.