Dick answered "No;" but coloured to the crown, for conscience reminded him that he had none the less been out of bounds.
The Squire, however, knowing nothing of his father's injunctions, misinterpreted the blush, judging him to be of a modest turn. Now the Squire liked a boy who wasn't "made of brass;" so he took Dick to his heart thenceforth.
"My grandsons will be pleased to show you the grounds at the Manor House any time you like to come up for a game," said he.
Dick thanked him.
"And if you're not too tired to turn back with us just now," continued the Squire, "we shall all be pleased to have your company."
So Dick, who had till one o'clock upon his hands, turned back towards the river with them, nothing loth to walk in such august society.
Meanwhile Bill, upon the riverbank, behind the willow clump, had just finished washing out his pockets, which he had wrung out as dry as he could before putting his jacket on again. This done, he turned to take a survey of the distant hostile squadron.
To his amazement and dismay, whom should he behold but Dick Crozier and the Squire's grandsons making straight for the very spot where he had given the goose that vicious kick; and in their midst the brisk, trim figure of the Squire himself, one hand behind his back, as usual, the other grasping the gold head of his cane.
"Now, if he ha'n't been straight and split on me!" exclaimed Bill to himself. "There's a mess!"
This was precisely what Dick—being somewhat in the same mess—had not done, and had no intention of doing. The history of the affair was this.