During all this interval, with the single exception of the morning following that of my encounter with Harry Harrier, I was left in peace by the village boys. On that morning, however, I again found myself in the midst of a little mob of them, who, emboldened by yesterday’s sport, were come to waylay me after school hours. I was not yet so proficient as to regard the situation with equanimity; when, behold! my enemy resolved it for me. He appeared suddenly in the midst, his knees and elbows in a lively state of agitation. One or two fell away, protesting, their hands caressing their injured parts.
“Where be a coomen, ’ar-ree!” expostulated one boy, holding his palm to his ear.
“Mighty!” exclaimed the young ruffler; “bain’t the road free to none but yourself, Jarge? Here be a yoong gen’lman waiting to pass, now.”
They took it as aimed at me, and hedged in again. He clawed two by the napes of their necks, and cracking their heads comfortably together, flung both aside. His intentions were quite unmistakable, and his strength a thing to regard. I was painfully conscious of it as I went through the sullen lane the others, discomfited, made for me; but I plucked up courage, as I passed, to express my gratitude.
“Thank you, Harry!” I said.
He was after me in a moment.
“It’s not a’going to make no differ’,” he whispered fiercely. “You onderstand that?”
“It shan’t, anyhow, till after the fight,” I answered back in his ear, and nodded and ran on.
At last the great day came. Mr. Sant, in order that my uncle might be saved anxiety, and me the necessity of deception, had given me no warning until the very moment was on me. He had manœuvred to hold me a little longer than usual over my lessons; and suddenly returned to me after a short absence from the room.
“Dick,” he said, “Harrier’s waiting for you in the garden.”