His sprained ankle pained him intensely; he began to feel the effects of his involuntary ride down hill; the place where the “bullet” struck him smarted and itched in a manner to make him writhe. In a word, he was miserable in both body and mind.
He reverted to the scene of conflict! “What could have been wrong with that pistol?” he asked himself angrily. “Something struck me—but what? Certainly, not a bullet. My father says that a big dose of powder will drive almost anything hard and solid into the flesh. Now, this struck me, and hurt me; but it didn’t punch a hole through my vest. Well, if I could only unload this other pistol, I should know to a certainty.—What became of the pistol Will fired? If he carried it off with him, he may suddenly scare the demon out of his wits!—Now, I wonder whether Will loaded my pistols wrong on purpose!—Well, this is rum old sport, sitting here like a dying gladiator, and not able to turn over for fear of howling with pain! No; I can’t budge from this spot!—Botheration! I won’t take Will to see any more curiosities!—Surely, the demon won’t hurt him!”
Thus the boy continued, speaking disjointed sentences just as the spirit moved him.
As no help came to him, he, the irrepressible, began to despond. It seemed to him that Death only would come to his release. Suddenly, he thought of the glass ink bottle hidden behind “Robinson Crusoe” in his drawer. He dwelt on it for the space of three minutes, and then, between a sigh and a groan, he said: “I wish I knew whether she would care if I should die here—alone, and in pain! Would she be sorry, or would she go to school as light-hearted as ever, and let some other boy sharpen her pencil? I wonder whether she would borrow Johnny Jones’ history! Oh! how I despise that boy! I wish I could see him leave the country! I wish now that I had given her my history out and out; that would keep my memory green in her eyes.”
Now, as Henry seldom or never soared higher than comparison,—to make our meaning clearer, as he was not in the habit of apostrophizing his treasured glass ink-bottle as an animated being of the feminine gender,—we must conclude that the veil is lifted from a romance in his life.
Do not laugh at him, reader; his woes were actual. In fact, we venture to assert that every member of the sterner sex, from the age of sixteen or seventeen till he is happily married, if he has any feeling, any heart, any soul, suffers more or less acutely from jealousy of a rival, real or imaginary.
After a time the moon came out, and dimly lighted up the valley. Henry was not afraid of goblins; and in sheer desperation he resolved to wait doggedly till something should happen.
Notwithstanding all his woes, he began to feel hungry. Then he recollected that he had set out with a knapsack of sandwiches slung over his shoulder.
“It will amuse me, and turn my wandering thoughts into a different channel,” he muttered, as he felt for the knapsack.