Chapter Twenty Two.
“I don’t want to fight,” thought Tom Blount, as he rushed off in pursuit of Pete Warboys, this time with full intention, and not led into it by accident. “Fighting means knocking the skin off one’s knuckles, black eyes, nose bleeding, and perhaps getting thrashed. And I may be, for he’s a big, strong, heavy fellow, and I don’t think I could hit him half hard enough to make him care. But it seems to me as if I must have a go at him. Can’t stand there and be pelted by such a fellow, it looks so cowardly. Besides, he’s a bit afraid, or he wouldn’t run away.”
All this and much more thought Tom, as he ran on as fast as he could on diving into the wood when he left the road. An hour or so ago, when Pete rushed in among the trees, Tom had soon given up the chase; but he felt that it would not do to let the young scoundrel feel that he was a kind of modern bold outlaw, with a sanctuary of his own in the woods; so clenching his fists hard, Tom sped on, making up his mind to run his quarry down.
“Uncle James won’t mind my leaving him, if I can go back and say I have punched Pete’s head for throwing stones at him.—Bother!”
Tom gathered himself up, and stood flinching during a few moments, for he had caught his foot against a closely-sawn-off stump, and though the earth was covered with pine-needles it was hard.
But the accident did not detain him many moments. There in front was Pete showing from time to time, as he dodged in and out among the tall columnar tree-trunks, now in shadow, now passing across some patch of sunshine; and Tom ran on faster than before, the pain having made him feel angry, and as if he must, to use his own words, “take it out of Pete,” he being the active cause.
From time to time the great hulking lad glanced back, expecting to see that he had shaken off his pursuer, but looked in vain, for Tom was now doggedly determined. His brow was knit, his teeth set, and his clenched fists held close to his sides, and after keeping up the high rate of speed for some minutes, he now, feeling that it was going to be a long chase, settled down to a steady football or hare-and-hound trot, which combined fair pace with a likelihood of being able to stay.
Pete Warboys too had been compelled to slacken somewhat in his clumsy bovine rush, and Tom observed with satisfaction, as the minutes went on, and they must have been—pursuer and pursued—toiling over the slippery fir-needles for quite a quarter of an hour, that Pete glanced over his shoulder more often than before.