“Here, boys, help!” cried Tomlins, making a grimace. “Convict’s setting up for—Ah!”
He did not have time to finish his sentence, for Nic caught him sharply by the shoulders and gave him an angry shake.
“If you say that again, I’ll serve you worse than Green did. No, I won’t;” he said in repentance. “There, go on back.”
The boy was silenced, and in a startled way joined his schoolfellows, while Nic once more went close up to Green.
“Let me help you up,” he said. “Here, shake hands, Green. It was only a fight, and you might have won.”
There was no answer, and Nic took his adversary by the arm, half forcing him to rise; but Green did not turn his head, nor raise his face to gaze in that before him, though he unresistingly allowed himself to be helped along the side of the hedge, so as to reach the lane that led to the high road and the village, at one end of which the park-like grounds of the doctor’s establishment stood.
“He’ll come round soon,” thought Nic. “He’s sure to feel sore after such a licking.”
“I say, isn’t old Convict a rum one,” whispered one of the boys who had been seconds.
“Well, he always was,” said the other. “What do you mean?”
“Why giving Green a licking, and then going to help him like that.”