There was no cowardice in Tom Tallington’s nature. Springing up he made at Dick, and the former friends were directly after engaged in delivering furious blows, whose result must have been rather serious for both; but before they had had time to do much mischief, each of the lads was gripped on the shoulder by a giant hand, and they were forced apart, and held beyond striking distance quivering with rage, and each seeing nothing but the adversary at whom he longed to get.
“Hey, lads, and I thowt you two was such friends!” cried the herald of peace, who had sung truce in so forcible and convincing a way.
“Let go, Hicky! He struck me.”
“Yes; let me get at him,” cried Tom. “He knocked me down.”
“And I’ll do it again a dozen times,” panted Dick. “Let go, Hicky, I tell you!”
“Nay, nay, nay, lads, I wean’t let go, and you sha’n’t neither of you fight any more. I’m ashamed of you, Mester Dick, with your poor father lying theer ’most dead, and the missus a-nigh wherritted to death wi’ trouble.”
“But he struck me,” panted Dick.
“And I’ll do it again,” cried Tom.
“If you do, young Tom Tallington, I’ll just pick you up by the scruff and the breeches and pitch you into the mere, to get out as you may; so now then.”
Tom uttered a low growl which was more like that of a dog than a human being; and after an ineffectual attempt to get at Dick, he dragged himself away to kneel down at the first clear pool to bathe his bleeding nose.