This one was thrown viciously as a cricket-ball by long-field-off. But Pete’s eyes were keen; he had seen the white patch on the side of the fruit, and instead of trying to catch it, he ducked his head, and let it go far away among the fir-trees, the branch of one of which it struck, and split in pieces.
“No, yer didn’t,” said Pete, grinning. “I say, chuck us another sixpence.”
“Not this time,” said Sam, puffing again at his cigarette and then staring at Tom, who suddenly threw off the feeling of hesitation which had kept him back, and made a rush forward in the direction taken by the pear.
“Where are you going?” cried Sam. “You’ve got plenty at home.”
But Tom paid no heed; his eyes were fixed on the spot where Pete had stood when he took out his pipe, and made for it.
Pete’s eyes had grown sharp from the life he led in the woods, and amongst the furze of the great heath-like commons, and he saw now the object which had fallen from his pocket. His sluggish manner was cast aside, and, as if suddenly galvanised into action, he sprang forward to secure the little object lying half hidden upon a tuft of ling.
The consequence was a smart collision, the two lads’ heads coming violently in contact, and, according to the conclusions of mathematicians, flying off at a tangent. The next instant Tom and Pete, half-stunned, were seated amongst the furze gazing stupidly at each other.
Tom was the first to recover, and, bending forward, caught up a bit of twisted brass wire, secured to a short length of string, before rising to his feet.
Then Pete was up, while Sam smoked and laughed heartily.
“Here, that’s mine,” cried Pete; “give it to me.”