“I wasn’t in the wrong,” persisted Dave. “You started it; I only hit when you did.”
“Of course, you was frightened,” said Tom. “That’s why you did it.”
“I was not frightened,” protested Dave, vigorously; “I was no more frightened—nor—nor—nor anything. You can’t frighten me as easy as that!”
“All right,” cried Tom, “don’t let us say any more about it. Shake hands, and we’ll make it up.”
“I won’t try to frighten you any more,” said Tom, generously, rubbing his shin where Dave had kicked him. “We better get down to the Tamarind. I left a lot of things there.”
It was growing darker and darker.
The two adventurers sneaked stealthily through the scrub in the direction of Dobie’s fence, following as nearly as they could a track which led across from Pagdin’s.
“Don’t make no more noise than you can help,” admonished Tom. “There might be somebody about. They might ’ave ’eard that row we kicked up.”
The lads stumbled along in the darkness, and every time one of them trod on a dry stick or on the crisp leaves, they would both stop and breathe hard. There was a fearsome mystery about the whole thing which lent it an additional charm. It is probably the danger attached to crime which renders evil-doing most attractive to the criminal.
They came at last to the tamarind tree, and stopped. Tom sat on the butt of a big hollow bluegum, which had been blown down by some tornado, and wiped his forehead.