Thereupon Tom told his friend that the man had had enough of it.
“As a matter of fact,” replied the Spider, “so have I.” At the same time showing Tom his left hand. “I’m not used to hitting my fists against the top of a thick skull like that. It has, I think, driven one of the knuckles in.” Saying which, the Spider lit another cigarette, went up to his late antagonist, and putting a sovereign into his hand, said, “There, my man, that will pay the boat and help to straighten you up; only don’t do it again, don’t you know.”
“No, I won’t,” said the fellow, “leastways, I won’t fight with you again, if that’s what you mean.” Then, as he spit on the gold in his hand, he added, “You’re a gentleman, though you be a new chum.”
“Well, you have a nerve,” said Tom, as they walked away; “and how you kept your temper in the boat I can’t understand.”
“Very simple to understand, Tom: if there had been a row in the boat, she might have capsized, and I can’t swim. I guessed rightly he wouldn’t chuck the dog overboard; I’d have had him as he seized it.”
But to station life Fulrake never would take. As Tom said to the squire a few days after the fight just recorded,—
“The little chap has tremendous pluck and nerve, but he is such a lazy fellow, and so full of fads about his grub and everything.”
And Fulrake, alias the “Spider,” soon after quitted the country, taking passage in the same ship with Tim and Jumper, for the old dog was getting very feeble, and his master was much delighted when the captain of the ship told him that he might take him with him.
Tim arrived in the New Forest in due course, and wrote a letter to his brother, which reached him many months afterwards, telling him of their parents, who though much aged were still hearty; of their sister (who had long been married, as they were aware); and he ended a long letter of Forest news by saying that Fulrake had tended him during the voyage like his own brother, and had looked after the old dog too.
And so the “Spider” disappears from the scene of our story.