“I can’t help that,” was the gruff reply. “You take my advice. Send ’em away before there’s more mischief done. I sha’n’t let ’em off next time.”
Hickathrift, who had watched all the proceedings, heard these words; and as the two lads trudged home beside him, with the squire and Farmer Tallington in front, he told them all that had been said.
Dick said nothing, but Tom fired up and exclaimed angrily, while the wheelwright kept on talking quietly to the former.
“Niver yow mind, lad; we don’t think you shot at him. It’s some o’ they lads t’other side o’ the fen. They comes acrost and waits their chance, and then goes back, and nobody’s none the wiser. Niver you mind what owd magistrit said. Magistrit indeed! Why, I’d mak’ a better magistrit out of owd Solomon any day o’ the week.”
It was kindly spoken; but if there is a difficult thing to do it is to “never mind” when the heart is sore through some accusation that rankles from its injustice.
“Yes, Tom,” said Dick, when they were about half-way home; “they’d better send us away.”
He looked longingly across the fen with its gleaming waters, waving reeds, and many-tinted flowers; and as he gazed in the bright afternoon sunshine it seemed as if it had never looked so beautiful before. To an agricultural-minded man it was a watery waste; but to a boy who had passed his life there, and found it the home of bird, insect, fish, and flower, and an ever-changing scene of pleasure, it was all that could be called attractive and bright.
“I’m ready to go,” said Tom sturdily; “only I don’t know which to do.”
“Which to do!” cried Dick, with his face growing red, and his eyes flashing. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Whether to go for a soldier or a sailor.”