“I suppose he’ll turn sneak, and peach,” said Jones; “he’d do anything that’s mean, we all know.”
Walter was always liable to that taunt now. It was a part of his punishment, and the one which lasted longest. From any other boy he might have winced under it; but really, coming from Jones, it was too contemptible to notice.
“You shut up, Jones,” he said angrily; “you shan’t touch Eden again, I can tell you, whatever Harpour does, and he’d better look out what he does.”
“Look out yourself,” said Harpour, flinging a football boot at Walter’s head.
“You’ll find your boot on the grass outside to-morrow morning,” said Walter, opening the window, and dropping it down. He wasn’t a bit afraid, because he always went on the instinctive and never-mistaken assumption, that a bully must be a coward in his inmost nature. Cruelty to the weaker is incompatible with the generosity of all true courage.
“By Jove, I’ll thrash you for that to-morrow,” shouted Harpour.
“To-morrow!” said Walter with great contempt.
“Oh, don’t make him angry, Walter,” whispered Eden; “you know what a strong fellow he is,” (Eden shuddered, as though he had reason to know); “and you can’t fight him; and you mustn’t get a thrashing for my sake. I’m not worth that. I’d rather bear it myself, Walter—indeed I would.”
“Good-night, poor little Eden,” said Walter; “you’re safe to-night at any rate. Why, how cold you are! What have they been doing to you?”
“I daren’t tell you to-night, Walter; I will to-morrow,” he answered in a low tone, shivering all over.