“How was it then, Jem?” said Harold. Half a dozen of the boys began vociferating at once; and all charging Archibald with being the author of the quarrel.
“Let us hear what Jem Mason says,” cried Harold.
“Why, Master Harold,” said James, “ye see, we was all playing at nine pins, out yonder, by the three elms; and so up comes your brother, and begins laughing at us, and calling us a parcel of blockheads, and sitch: and at last Dick Hobb here, says to him, we be’nt no more blockheads than you, Master Archey: and then he comes in a fury and kicks down all the pins, what we had just set up; and as quick as we sets ’em up again, he kicks ’em down again: and then, Dick gives him a sort of a hit, I fancy, ’o th’ head; and then he flies, ye see, in a passion, and calls us names; and begins hitting about: and so it comes to a fight with he and Dick; and he gets one or two bloody noses: and that’s all, Master Harold.”
“Archibald,” said Harold, turning round towards his brother, “Papa sent me to bid you go home directly: he is waiting to speak to you in the garden.”
Archibald knew very well that he dare not disobey this summons: and though he had great reason to dread his Father’s displeasure, yet perhaps, if the whole truth were known, he was not sorry to be thus dismissed, without more fighting; as it is probable that, if his brother had not come up, he would have been still more severely beaten.
When Archibald had got to some distance, Harold said, “Have any of you any thing to say to me?” There were some murmurs; but James Mason replied, “Master Harold, you know we don’t want to have any words with you; because you are always good-tempered and never meddles with us.”
“I am very sorry,” said Harold, “that my brother has spoiled your play: but it is a wicked thing to fight.—Richard Hobb, come with me.”
Richard Hobb was not at all willing to accompany Harold; but after a little consideration he seemed to think it best to comply: he and Harold, therefore, followed Archibald to the garden gate: and the other boys dispersed.
When Harold and Richard Hobb came into the garden, they found Archibald standing by his Father, on the gravel walk: he hung down his head,—pouted,—drew long sobs; and kept twisting the buttons of his coat. Richard Hobb appeared more frightened than ashamed.
“Harold,” said his Father, “have you been able to learn how this quarrel began?”