" she asked.

"'Enery Hatkins," replied the youth, as he remembered sundry cautions
about the letter h he had received at school. "What's yours?"

"Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt," said the small girl, sitting up
straighter to say it. "I don't like the name of Atkins."

"Don't you?" said Henry, trying not to show resentment. "I don't like
Gertrude, or Ursula, or Florence, and Harcourt's the worst of all."

Miss Harcourt drew off three or four inches and drummed with the tips of
her fingers on the table. "I don't care what you like," she said
humming.

"I like Gerty," said Henry with the air of a connoisseur, as he looked
at the small flushed face. "I think Gerty's very pretty."

"That's what they always call me," said Miss Harcourt carelessly. "Does
your ship go right out to sea?"

"Yes," said the boy. They had been blown out to sea once, and he salved
his conscience with that.

"And how many times," said Gertrude Ursula Florence Harcourt, getting
nearer to him again, "have you had fights with pirates?"

She left absolutely no loophole. If she had asked him whether he had
ever fought pirates he would have said "No," though that would have been
hard with her little excitable face turned towards his and the dark blue
eyes dancing with interest.

"I forget whether it was six or seven," said Henry Atkins. "I think it
was only six."

"Tell us all about them," said Miss Harcourt, shifting with excitement.

Henry took a bite of his apple and started, thankful that a taste for
reading of a thrilling description had furnished him with material. He
fought ships in a way which even admirals had never thought of, and
certainly not the pirates, who were invariably discomfited by the
ingenious means by which he enabled virtue to triumph over sin. Miss
Harcourt held her breath with pleasurable terror, and tightened or
relaxed the grip of her small and not too clean fingers on his arm as
the narrative proceeded.

"But you never killed a man yourself," said she, when he had finished.
There was an inflection, just a slight infl