When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his present circumstances some little reflection, they did not appear in a very encouraging light; he had only four shillings and a few pence in his pocket, and was something more than two hundred and fifty miles from London, whither he resolved to direct his steps, that he might ascertain, among other things, what account of the morning’s proceedings Mr. Squeers transmitted to his most affectionate uncle.
Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that there was no remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he beheld a horseman coming towards him, whom, on nearer approach, he discovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no other than Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in cords and leather leggings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash stick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout sapling.
‘I am in no mood for more noise and riot,’ thought Nicholas, ‘and yet, do what I will, I shall have an altercation with this honest blockhead, and perhaps a blow or two from yonder staff.’
In truth, there appeared some reason to expect that such a result would follow from the encounter, for John Browdie no sooner saw Nicholas advancing, than he reined in his horse by the footpath, and waited until such time as he should come up; looking meanwhile, very sternly between the horse’s ears, at Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure.
‘Servant, young genelman,’ said John.
‘Yours,’ said Nicholas.
‘Weel; we ha’ met at last,’ observed John, making the stirrup ring under a smart touch of the ash stick.
‘Yes,’ replied Nicholas, hesitating. ‘Come!’ he said, frankly, after a moment’s pause, ‘we parted on no very good terms the last time we met; it was my fault, I believe; but I had no intention of offending you, and no idea that I was doing so. I was very sorry for it, afterwards. Will you shake hands?’
‘Shake honds!’ cried the good-humoured Yorkshireman; ‘ah! that I weel;’ at the same time, he bent down from the saddle, and gave Nicholas’s fist a huge wrench: ‘but wa’at be the matther wi’ thy feace, mun? it be all brokken loike.’
‘It is a cut,’ said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke,—‘a blow; but I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.’