one the
trembling small fry were grabbed and passed round to answer a string of
questions such as--

"What's your name?"

"Are you most like your father or your mother?"

"Who's your hatter?"

"Can you swim?"

"Who was the father of Zebedee's children?"

"Are you a Radical or a Tory?"

All of which questions each luckless catechumen was required to answer
truly, and in a loud, distinct voice, amid the most embarrassing cheers
and jeers and hootings of the audience.

Dick got through his fairly well till he came to the political question,
when he made the great mistake of saying he didn't know whether he was a
Radical or a Tory. For, as he might have expected, every one was down
on him, and he was sent forth a marked man to make up his mind on the
question.

Heathcote, whose sorrow it was to be separated from his friend in the
landing of the catch, was less lucky. He professed himself like his
mother, which was greatly against him. His hatter also was a country
artist instead of a Londoner, and that he discovered was an extremely
grave offence. And as for his politics, he made a greater mistake even
than Dick, for he professed himself imbued with opinions "between the
two," an announcement which brought down a torrent of abuse and scorn,
mingled with cries of "kick him for a half-and-half prig!" an
observation which Heathcote was very sorry indeed to hear.

As the reader may guess, poor young Aspinall had a very bad time of it.
He began to cry as soon as the first question was propounded. But this
demonstration failed to shelter him. A general hiss greeted the sound
of his whimper, and cries of, "Where's his bottle?"

"Meow!"

"Hush-a-bye baby!" His ruthless tyrants, who knew no distinction
between the tears of a crocodile and the tears of a terrified child,
made him go through his catechism to the bitter end. They howled with
delight when they heard him call himself Bertie, and paused in dead
silence to hear him say whether he was like "papa or mamma"--"or nurse?"
as some one suggested. He took refuge in tears again, with the result
that his inquisitors were more than ever determined to get their answer.

"Hang it, you young ass," said one boy, whom the child, even in his
flutter and misery, recognised as the boy who had accosted them at the
door of Westover's that morning, "can't you answer without blubbering
like that? Nobody's going to eat you up."

This friendly admonition served to set