“Oh, I remember,” continued Glyn. “Because I bullied you about showing off with that belt. Well, we can’t say anything about that. What shall we say? Look here, how would it be to go down the field together and fall out all at once, and you hit me, and I’ll hit you back, and then we will rush at one another, calling names, and the fellows will come up to see what’s the matter, and then we will fight.”
“Ur–r–r–r–r–ur!” growled Singh, rushing at him with clenched fists; but as he saw the good-humoured twinkle in his companion’s eyes, the boy stopped short, and his clenched fists dropped to his sides. “You are laughing at me,” he said; “laughing in your nasty, cold-blooded English way.”
“Well, isn’t it enough to make a fellow laugh? Here are you trying to get up a quarrel about nothing, and threatening to break with me, when you know you don’t mean it all the time.”
“I do mean it!” raged out the boy. “For you have insulted me cruelly.”
“Ah, that’s what you say now, Singhy; but before you go to bed to-night you will be as vexed with yourself as can be, and wish you had not said what you have. You will feel then that I have only spoken to you just as the dad would if he had been here. And then what would you have done? Looked at him for a minute like a tiger with its claws all spread out, and the next minute you would have done what you always did do.”
“What was that?” cried the boy fiercely.
“Held out your hand and said, ‘I am sorry. I was wrong.’”
Singh turned away and walked to the window, to stand looking out for a few minutes before turning back; and then he walked up to Glyn and said: “Come down into the cricket-field.”
“To have it out?” said Glyn quietly.
“Oh, Glynny!” cried the boy, and he held out his hand.