"Face hurt much?"
Pete gave a duck with his head which was meant for an assent, and
continued splashing.
"So does mine," said Tom suddenly, "and I ache all over."
There was another pause.
"I say!"
Pete held his head still, but did not turn round, keeping his face
within a few inches of the water.
"It was all your fault: I didn't want to fight."
Pete began splashing again.
"I'm going home now; I shall come and see how the dog is to-morrow."
The only sign made by Pete was to take his left hand from his pocket,
and hold it as far behind him as he could reach, with something held
between his finger and thumb.
Tom stared, for it was the sixpence he had given him before the fight.
"I don't want it," said Tom; and he turned away, plunged in among the
fir-trees, and as soon as he was in shelter looked back, to see that
Pete was still bending over the water and holding the coin out behind
him.
"Oh, I do wish it was dark," thought Tom, "so that I could get in
without being seen. It'll be weeks before my face is quite well again.
And I wanted to be friendly too. All my blackberries and mushrooms
gone. Oh, how my head aches; just as if I'd been knocking it against a
wall."
By this time he had reached the far edge of the pine-wood, and stepped
down into the lane, to begin walking fast with his head hanging, and a
feeling of depression and misery making him long for the peace of his
own little room.
But still his brain kept on actively at work, forming little pictures of
the events of the afternoon, while his thoughts in his mental musings
took the form of short, terse sentences.
"I hate fighting.--That's making friends with him.--He'll always hate me
now.--Mr Maxted's all wrong.--But Pete does love his dog.--How queer
about that sixpence."
"Good-afternoon, Tom."
The boy stopped short with his heart beating, to find Mr Maxted seated
upon a stump in the side of the fir-wood, evidently enjoying the
glorious sunset tints spreading from the horizon nearly to the zenith.
"I--I didn't see you, sir," faltered Tom.
"Of course you did not, or you wouldn't have gone by. What a lovely
sunset! Why, my good lad, whatever have you been doing?"
The Vicar rose from his seat and came forward, giving the boy a startled
look.
"Your face is horribly bruised, and--did you fall from some tree? My
dear lad, it's terrible--just as if you had been fighting."
"I have," said Tom bluntly, as he stood with his head erect, but his
nearly-closed eyes fixed upon the ground.
"But there's no one to fight with here?"
"Yes--Pete Warboys."
"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the Vicar, laying his hand upon the boy's
shoulder. "But tell me, did he assault you?"
"I suppose so, sir."
"But--er--er--did you hit him back?"
"Oh yes, sir," said Tom, with more animation now; "we had a regular
set-to."
The Vicar coughed, and keeping his hand upon his companion's shoulder,
he walked on by his side in silence for a few minutes. Then, after
another cough--
"Of, course I cannot approve of fighting, Tom; but--er--he beat you
then--well?"
"Oh no, sir," said Tom, flushing a little. "I beat. He lay down at
last and cried."
"Humph!" ejaculated the Vicar. "Tell me how it began."
With wonderful clearness Tom related the whole adventure, and growing
more animated as he went on, he finished by saying--
"It all came out of what you said, sir. I thought if Pete had some good
in him, I'd try and help bring it out by being a little friendly; but I
regularly failed, and uncle will be horribly cross with me for getting
in such a state."
"Nothing of the kind," said the Vicar decisively. "I know your uncle
better than you do, sir, and I can answer for what he will say. But you
see, Tom, I was quite right about the lad."
"No, sir, I don't," replied Tom sharply. "Look at my face and hands."
"Oh yes, they do show wounds of the warpath, Tom; but they were received
in a grand cause. I knew there was good in the lad, and you have done a
deal to bring it out."
"I don't see much good yet, sir," said Tom, rather sulkily, for he was
in a great deal of pain.
"Perhaps not," said the Vicar, "but I do. It seems to me that by
accident you have gone the right way to work to make a change in Pete
Warboys. You have evidently made him respect you, by showing him that
you were the better man."
By this time they were getting pretty close to Heatherleigh, and the
Vicar gave Tom's arm a grip.
"I'm afraid I shall not see you at church next Sunday, Tom," he said,
with a smile.
"Are you going to be away, sir?" said Tom wonderingly.
"No: but you are."
"I?" cried the boy. "Why?"
"Go up into your bedroom, have a good bathe at your face, and then look
in the glass. That will tell you why."
The Vicar walked away, and Tom slipped in quietly without being seen,
hurried up to his room, and reversed the advice he had received; for
instead of bathing himself first he walked straight to the glass, gave
one long look, and turned away in despair, for his face looked far worse
than it had done in the clear water.
"What will uncle say?" groaned Tom; and he forgot Mrs Fidler, who came
up to his door to see if he had returned, and receiving no answer to her
knock, she walked in, and then said a good deal, but it was while
working hard to alleviate the boy's pain.
In the midst of it all Uncle Richard came home.
"Now for it," said Tom bitterly. "What will he say?"
He soon heard, and when he did, there was a singular choky feeling in
his throat. For Uncle Richard called up the stairs--
"Feel well enough to come down, Tom? Never mind your looks."
He went down, still expecting a severe rating, but instead of meeting an
angry face there was a very merry one, for he was saluted by a roar of
laughter.
"Upon my word!" exclaimed Uncle Richard. "You're a nice ornament for
the home of a simple country gentleman. But Mr Maxted says you gave
him a thorough thrashing. Did you? Here, let's look at your knuckles."
Tom slowly held out his hands.
"Oh yes," said his uncle, nodding. "There's no mistake about that. And
so you are going to make a model boy of Pete Warboys, eh?"
"I thought I'd try, uncle," said Tom bitterly.
"Oh, well, go on boy, go on. You must have beaten the clay quite soft.
When are you going to put it in the new mould?"
"I don't know, uncle," said Tom. "I expect the next thing will be that
Pete will half kill me."