"Afraid! Why on earth?" Saltash's hand suddenly found and fondled the fair head. His speech was no longer curt, but gentle, with a half-quizzical tenderness. "Aren't you rather an ass, boy? What was there to be afraid of?"
Toby could not tell him. He only, after a moment, slipped down in a sitting position by Saltash's side and rested with more assurance against the encircling arm.
"Come! I didn't hurt you much," said Saltash.
"No, sir. You didn't hurt me—at all." Toby stammered a little.
"You—you—you meant—not to hurt me, didn't you?"
"I must hit harder next time evidently," observed Saltash, with a squeeze of the narrow shoulders.
"No, sir—no, sir! There shan't be—a next time!" Toby assured him with nervous vehemence. "I only did it just to see—just to see—I'll never do it again, sir."
"Just to see what?" asked Saltash curiously.
But again Toby could not explain himself, and he did not press him.
"Well, you didn't do it at all well," he remarked. "I shouldn't certainly make a profession of it if I were you. It's plainly not your métier."
He paused, but with the air of having something more to say. Toby waited silently.