The Cuckoo Child
“The boys were marching in crocodile formation from the untidy, draughty barracks of a house to the playing field, shared by just about every school and institution in the neighbourhood, where they held their once monthly game of punt-about. You could scarcely call it football since there would be fifty boys playing it, but even so it was eagerly anticipated by the boys at the Redwood Grange Orphanage, for it was the closest thing to freedom ever offered by that establishment.
‘What’s so funny a...bout my name, Tolstein?’ Corky muttered, addressing the sniggerer. ‘It ain’t anywhere near as funny as Tolstein. At least it’s an English name . . . or Irish, at any rate.’ The sniggerer looked apologetic. ‘I weren’t laughin’ at you, Corky,’ he said humbly. ‘I were laughin’ at old Blister, ’cos when he shook his fist at you like that, the drop on the end of his nose fell straight on to his knuckles. Wish my name were Cochrane,’ he added wistfully. ‘What was you lookin’ at, anyroad?’ ‘Dunno as I were lookin’ at anything in pertickler,’ Corky said vaguely.MoreLess
‘What’s so funny a...bout my name, Tolstein?’ Corky muttered, addressing the sniggerer. ‘It ain’t anywhere near as funny as Tolstein. At least it’s an English name . . . or Irish, at any rate.’ The sniggerer looked apologetic. ‘I weren’t laughin’ at you, Corky,’ he said humbly. ‘I were laughin’ at old Blister, ’cos when he shook his fist at you like that, the drop on the end of his nose fell straight on to his knuckles. Wish my name were Cochrane,’ he added wistfully. ‘What was you lookin’ at, anyroad?’ ‘Dunno as I were lookin’ at anything in pertickler,’ Corky said vaguely.MoreLess
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