“Bull-geese!” said David, turning the word over two or three times as if he liked it, “bull-geese! Yes, sir, I will,” and he began to chuckle, while Tom joined his uncle, who was already on his way to the mill.
As Tom reached the lane he was just in time to meet Pete Warboys, who came slouching along with his hands as far down in his pockets as he could reach, his boots, two sizes too large, unlaced, and his dog close behind him.
Pete’s body went forward as if all together, but his eyes were on the move the while, searching in every direction as if for prey, and settled upon Tom with a peculiarly vindictive stare, while the dog left his master’s side, and began to sniff at Tom’s legs.
“Not afraid of you now,” thought the boy, as he remembered the fir-cones, and felt sure that a stone would send the dog flying at any time. But as he met Pete’s eye he did not feel half so sure. For Pete was big-boned and strong, and promised to be an ugly customer in a battle.
“And besides, he’s so dirty,” thought Tom, as he passed on to the gate, through which his uncle had just passed.
Pete said nothing until Tom had closed the gate. Then there was the appearance of a pair of dirty hands over the coping of the wall, the scraping noise made by a pair of boot toes against the bricks, and next Pete’s head appeared just above the wall, and he uttered the comprehensive word expressive of his contempt, defiance, and general disposition to regard the boy from London as an enemy whose head he felt disposed to punch. Pete’s word was—
“Yah!”
Tom felt indignant.
“Get down off that wall, sir!” he cried.
This roused Pete Warboys, who, as the daring outlaw of Furzebrough, desired to play his part manfully, especially so since he was on the other side of the said wall; and, wrinkling up his snub nose, he cried—