"He should be in by now, sir," said Dick's mother, looking at her watch,—her grandparents' present on her wedding day,—"but he gets late sometimes."
So the Squire proposed to wait awhile, if Mrs. Crozier would allow him to; and they talked, to pass away the time, Mrs. Crozier taking the Squire's heart by storm with her gentle manners, but looking uneasily at her watch from time to time.
Bill had been received back home with open arms, and without a word of scolding, on a promise—signed by the Squire, as it were—of future good behaviour. It happened that, being anxious to avoid a meeting with Dick Crozier, whose school stood within a stone's throw of the parish school which he attended, Bill had conceived the idea of returning by the riverbank. In arriving at this resolution, he had not forgotten the geese; but Bill was sharp enough to know that now the grass was laid down for hay, these terrors of humanity would no longer be abroad. He set off, accordingly, with the virtuous intention of running great part of the way, so as to reach home punctually. Dick had not proceeded far along the bank, therefore, when he perceived Bill coming full speed towards him.
Bill, too much out of breath to look higher than his toes, failed to perceive Dick until they were within a few yards of each other, when he suddenly awoke to the unpleasant fact that he was face to face with his enemy.
"Hullo, sneak!" exclaimed Dick.
"Let be!" cried Bill, as Dick attempted to bar his passage.
But Dick did not budge. He only dodged Bill, without attempting to make way.
"I'm in a hurry home," said Bill. "Let me by."
"Sneak!" repeated Dick. "Who split?"
"I didn't split," said Bill. "They made me tell."