“As to me,” said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner of ways with his sulky hands, “I am a donkey, that’s what I am. I am as obstinate as one, I am more stupid than one, I get as much pleasure as one, and I should like to kick like one.”

“Not me, I hope, Tom?”

“No, Loo; I wouldn’t hurt you . I made an exception of you at first. I don’t know what this⁠—jolly old⁠—Jaundiced jail,” Tom had paused to find a sufficiently complimentary and expressive name for the parental roof, and seemed to relieve his mind for a moment by the strong alliteration of this one, “would be without you.”

“Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?”

“Why, of course I do. What’s the use of talking about it!” returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison with his spirit.