Still no reply; and weary, hungry, and disgusted with himself as well as his companion, Sydney felt in that state of irritable rawness which can best be described as having the skin off his temper. He was just in the humour to quarrel; and now, stirred beyond bearing by his companion’s obstinacy, Syd flew at him, grasped his arm, gave it a tug which snatched it from the pocket, and roared out—
“Come on!”
Then he retreated a step, for, to his intense surprise, there came from the lad, who had always been obedient and respectful, a short, snappish “Shan’t!” which was more like the bark of a dog than the utterance of a boy.
“What!” cried Sydney, as he recovered from his surprise, and felt the blood flush in his face.
“Says I shan’t. I arn’t coming home to be larruped.”
“You are not coming home?”
“No, I arn’t. He’s waitin’ for me with a big rope’s-end all soaked hard, and I know what that means, so I shan’t come.”
Sydney drew a long breath as he reviewed their position, and told himself that it was more his fault than that of the gardener’s boy that they were there.
“I know better than he does, and ought to have stopped him instead of going with him, and he shall come back, because it’s right.”
“Now then, Pan,” he said aloud, “I am going back home.”