‘I shan’t hate Joe Mountain when I’m a man,’ said the boy.
The surly man in the field, hearing these words, looked on a sudden surlier still, and throwing up his head with a listening air, and holding his ankle with both hands, crouched and craned his neck to listen.
‘May’st have to change thy mind, Master Richard,’ said the labourer.
‘Why should I change my mind, Ichabod?’ asked the boy, looking up at him.
‘Why?’ answered Ichabod, ‘thee’lt niver have it said as thee wast afraid of any o’ the Mountain lot.’
‘I’m not afraid of him,’ piped the engaging young cockerel ‘We had a fight in the coppice last holidays, and I beat him. The squire caught us, and we were going to stop, but he made us go on, and he saw fair. Then he made us shake hands after. Joe Mountain wouldn’t say he’d had enough, but the squire threw up the sponge for him. And he gave us two half-crowns apiece, and said we were both good plucked uns.’
‘Ah! ‘said Ichabod, with warmth, ‘he’s the right sort is the squire. And there’s no sort or kind o’ sport as comes amiss to him. A gentleman after my own heart.’
‘He made us shake hands and promise we’d be friends,’ said Master Richard, ‘and we’re going to be.’
‘Make him turn the brook back first, Master Richard,’ said Ichabod. The two were almost at the bridge by this time, and the listener could hear distinctly.
‘Turn the brook back?’ the boy asked. ‘What do you mean, Ichabod?’