His heart bounded with delight; he was supremely happy. To hear such words from her lips was ample recompense for all that he had suffered or might yet suffer.
It was nearly five years later; Henry was just twenty-one. He and a beautiful woman, dressed in bridal costume, were stepping into a railway carriage that was to take them to a steamer about to set sail for Europe.
“Will,” he said suddenly, “pull off your hat quick, and bow! I—I can’t; I’m too stiff.”
Wonderingly, and, alas! how awkwardly, Will raised his hat.
After they had passed the house Henry began to wonder what Johnny Jones had been doing there. Had he been talking to her? His eyes flashed fire; he was miserable.
Foolish boy, he was troubling himself needlessly. And if he had been more a philosopher, he would have known that Jonny Jones, in saying those few jeering words, had forever ruined his cause in the eyes of————.
When the cousins reached home, Henry’s remaining pistol was unloaded, and a hearty laugh followed; for all knew, of course, that both pistols must have been loaded alike.
Henceforth, he could have the pleasure of telling his school-mates that he had been “shot.” There was, however, one drawback: there was no wound to heal, and there would be no scar to show to doubters.
Henry was thoroughly warmed; his ankle was rubbed with sundry liniments and carefully bound up; and then the young adventurers were sent to bed.