Davey knew his brother pretty well, but such injustice made him gasp. His small brains worked quickly, and remembering that Richard’s business on the rabbit warren took him far from the powder-mills, the boy held his peace.
This silence, however, angered the bully more than words. They moved homeward together, and the elder spoke again.
“Now you can just fork out that trout, and be quick about it.”
“You promised on your honour!” cried Davey.
“Promises doan’t hold wi’ poachers.”
They were walking from the valley to their home; and the younger, seeing the farm-house door not two hundred yards distant, made a sudden bolt in hope to reach his mother and safety before Dick could overtake him. But he was soon caught and violently flung to the ground.
“Would you, you whelp?”
A blow upon the side of the head dazed the child, and before he could recover or resist, his brother had thrust a rough hand into Davey’s pocket, dragged therefrom the little trout, and stamped it to pulp under his heel.
“There—now you go home-along in front of me, you young dog. I’ll teach you!”
The boy stood up, muddy, dishevelled, shaking with rage. His eyes shone redly in the setting sunlight; he clenched his little fists, and his frame shook.