“Hanging!” cried Jack. “The evils of the Game Laws—”
“Oh, nonsense, Jack. Put that in your ‘Essay on the Evils of all Sorts of Governments,’” said Cherry; then turning to the squire, “But they are not poachers, father.”
“I will not be interfered with. You take too much on yourself,” said Mr Lester; then, seeing Cheriton look first blankly amazed, then angry, and finally hurt beyond measure, he suddenly softened.
“Well, you can go and see them if you wish. Don’t vex yourself, my lad; you make too much of it. But you’re looking better than you did yesterday.”
“Oh, my head ached yesterday,” said Cherry brightly; but he looked up at his father with a sudden pang and sense of ingratitude. Why could he care so little for anything, so little for the Flemings, even while he argued in their behalf? He lingered a little, talking to his father, while Jack returned to his essay “On the Evils Inherent in every Existing Form of Government;” and then set off on his walk to the Flemings’ farm. He ought to care for lads to whom he had taught their cricket and their catechism, and who were much of an age with himself and his brothers, and often thought to resemble them, being equally big, fair, and strong. He talked and sympathised till the story of certain wrongs was confided to him by the younger one—how a certain “she” had nearly driven him to bad courses, but “she warn’t worth going to the bad for.”
Cherry looked at the lad’s serene and ruddy face, and felt as if he might get a lesson.
Did all his culture and his principle and refinement only sap his powers of endurance?
“You’re a brave fellow, Willie,” he said, putting out his hand. “I wish—well, don’t let me hear of your getting into trouble, or going with those poaching fellows.”
“No, sir, not for her, nor for any lass. But—there’s the old parson.”
Cherry got up from the wall of the field where he had been sitting, and went to meet him.