And they strode away, leaving the four plotters together.
It may not be pertinent to the subject to picture here so dark a side of life, but now the reader will understand why the six avoided the society of the other boys of the village, and clung to each other. Poor fellows, with all their faults, they were free from such jealous passions.
As soon as they found themselves alone, George said eagerly, “Come, Charles, don’t be too hard on Will.”
“Well, George, I don’t know but that you’re right in what you said,” Charles admitted; “but it was very unpleasant for us, and what will people think?”
“Pshaw! what do we care about that!” the Sage exclaimed contemptuously, hugging the prize to his bosom. “After all, I don’t know but that Will said more in favor of us than against us; and wasn’t it worse for him than for us? If he can bear it, we can.”
“George is quite right,” Stephen declared. “Will is more to be pitied than all of us put together.”
“I don’t want anybody’s pity,” Will said sourly.
“Marmaduke and Jim got it the worst,” said Steve. “The only thing that troubles me at all, is that our plot is spoiled;” in a doleful tone.
“Spoiled! How is it spoiled?” the Sage inquired. “Marmaduke wasn’t there to hear the letter, and no one else could make any sense out of it.—I—I mean,” he added quickly, “no one would know what it meant.”
“Well, how are we to patch it up again?” Charles asked uneasily.