Wild Boy Read Online Free PDF Page A

you are, Mr. Finch,” Sir Oswald said, placing the beer bottle in the showman’s hand.
    “Clean that up an’ all, runt,” Finch said.
    Sir Oswald slid back, revolted by the sight of the showman’s chamber pot on the floor. The reeking bowl was filled with sloppy brown excrement.
    Finch’s face cracked into a sneer. “Get it nice and sparkling, like.”
    Wild Boy’s fists clenched into hairy balls.
Stay calm,
he urged himself. But his hands shook with anger. Before he could stop himself he sprang up and yelled at Finch across the van. “Clean that up yourself, you old goat!”
    The showman bolted up. “
What
did you just say to me?”
    “Nothing!” Sir Oswald said. “He didn’t say anything! Here, I shall clean it up. . . .”
    “Don’t do it!” Wild Boy insisted. “He can bloomin’ do it himself.”
    Slowly, Augustus Finch rose. “Say that again, mutt.”
    Wild Boy knew what would happen now. It was the same whenever he stood up to Finch, or to Master Bledlow back when he’d lived at the workhouse. Now he was going to get badly hurt. But he wouldn’t back down, even though he felt physically sick with fear. He wouldn’t give Finch the satisfaction.
    He tried to sound brave, but his voice betrayed him and he couldn’t stop it from cracking. “It . . . It just ain’t right,” he said.
    Before he could react, the showman struck him across the face and then kicked him hard in the chest. Wild Boy tumbled back and crashed against the caravan stove in a burst of sparks.
    Finch towered over him. “Cry!” he roared. “I wanna hear you cry for once, you disgusting, ugly mutt!”
    The sharp taste of blood stung Wild Boy’s mouth, and his chest screamed where the showman’s hobnail boot had hit him. Part of him wanted to curl up and beg Finch for forgiveness, because then the showman would leave him alone. But he wouldn’t — he
couldn’t.
    He pressed a hand against the wall and rose unsteadily to his feet. He’d put up a fight, that much he
could
do. Maybe he could even add a new scar to Finch’s collection, before the showman beat him unconscious. That would be something, at least.
    He hocked up a ball of spit and blood and fired it to the floor beside the showman’s boots. “I ain’t crying for no one,” he said.
    He expected another attack, but now Finch turned to Sir Oswald. The showman’s eyes gleamed with ferocity. “And
you
. . .”
    Sir Oswald tried to crawl away, but Finch dragged him back and thrust his face at the chamber pot. “You can
lick
that up now, runt!”
    Wild Boy knew he should leave. He could sleep in the stable hut, come back tomorrow. But something inside him had snapped. He’d had enough.
    He reached down and picked up a shard of the broken beer bottle. “You let him go, Finch.”
    Finch snorted. He released Sir Oswald and stepped closer to Wild Boy. “You got some nerve, boy, I’ll give you that. You say you won’t cry? Ha! Before I’m done with you, you’re gonna scream like a baby.”
    The showman struck out, but this time Wild Boy was ready. Ducking Finch’s arm, he dropped to the floor and rammed the glass dagger into the showman’s boot. A savage roar came from his mouth, rage at three years of cruel treatment as he felt the weapon tear through leather and into flesh.
    Finch gave a bloodcurdling scream. He tumbled back and landed on the chamber pot, a wave of foul brown filth washing over his head.
    Before the showman could get up, Wild Boy leaped on him and hit him with the pot. “That’s for picking on Sir Oswald!” he yelled. “And this is for everything else!”
    He whacked Finch again, then again, harder. With each strike, his panic mounted, and more tears filled his eyes. He knew he had to run. He had nowhere to go, but he
had
to run. Dropping the pot, he jumped over the showman and burst through the door. Sir Oswald cried out for him to stop, but he was already gone. His long coat swished red and gold as he fled the freak show and into the