If he did, the battle he contemplated was a Battle of the Spurs. Clapping his hand to the thorns in him, and too frightened now to remember to cry, he took to his heels and, turning a corner, was out of sight in a moment. His answer to the resolution claimed for him was so ludicrous that even his little abettors were set off chuckling.
I was looking across at Harry, and saw his face, too, relax and lighten. Drawn by its expression, I walked up to him, with my hand held out.
“Why won’t you, Harry?” I said.
He stared at me, but made no response.
“We knew you could look after yourself,” I went on, “and—and I wasn’t going to interfere; at least—I mean—why won’t you let us stand up for one another, Harry?” I ended, with a burst and a blush.
His face, too, was very red again, and I could see his lips were trembling. Pride and gratitude were fighting within him for mastery; but the former—still too hot with recent suffering to surrender—remained the more stubborn of the two. While my hand was yet held out, he turned his back on me, on us all, and walked off erect.
I was bitterly hurt and chagrined. I felt that I had done the handsome thing by a boor, and had been meetly rebuffed for my condescension. I came back to Mr. Sant, swelling with indignation. He understood at a glance.
“Give him time, Dick,” he said quietly; “give him time.”
“He shall have all the time he likes, sir,” I said, “before I meddle with him again.”
He did not answer, which was perhaps wise; and we continued our walk. But thenceforth my heart was darkened to my unchivalrous foe, and when we passed in the street I ignored him.