Chapter 35

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_ CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

In a few minutes Pete stopped at the edge of a hollow, where, half covered by sedge rushes and bog plantain, there lay a good-sized pool of clear water, down to which Tom made his way, followed by his companion, and after taking a hearty draught, which was wonderfully clear and refreshing, he began to bathe his cuts and bruises, and rid himself of the half-dried blood.

While Tom bathed his face and hands, Pete stood looking on, till suddenly the former raised his head.

"Hulloo! Why don't you have a wash?" he said sharply.

Pete made no reply, but stepped down to the water's edge, went upon his knees, and began to bathe his face.

While he was busy Tom rose, and made the best use he could of his pocket-handkerchief by way of a towel, and when he was pretty well dry he went along to where the water lay calm and still in a corner of the pool. Here, by approaching cautiously, he was able to lie down upon his chest, and gaze into what formed as good a looking-glass as was ever owned by his savage ancestors.

The sight the boy saw was startling.

"Oh dear!" he half groaned; "what will Mrs Fidler say--and uncle?"

He stood up thinking for a few minutes, watching Pete, who kept on dipping his hands into the cool water, and holding them full up to his burning face; and as Tom looked, and thought that there was no one to call the rough lad to account, he appeared to be seeing everything about him with wonderful clearness--there were the long shadows of the pines cast across the pool with streaks of golden sunshine, in which the silver water buttercups, with their two kinds of leaves, lay thick above and below the surface; along by the edge were the branched bur-reeds, with their round spiked stars of seed-vessels; close by the pinky flowering rush was growing, and in the shallows the water soldier thrust up stiffly its many heads. And all the time splash--splash--splash-- there was the faint sound of the water as Pete scooped it up, and bathed his battered face.

The scene was very beautiful and attracted Tom; but there were dark shadows in his mind beckoning him away--to wit, his uncle and Mrs Fidler, ready to ask him why he was in such a plight.

"It's like taking one of the old lady's doses of medicine," he said to himself at last. "I'd better toss it off and get it over, so here goes."

He walked back round the edge of the pool, and Pete must have heard him coming, but all the sign he made was to thrust one wet hand into his pocket and go on bathing himself with the other.

Tom looked on in silence for a few moments.

"I'm going now," he said.

Pete went on splashing, and Tom hesitated.

Then--

"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." _

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