“Here, bumpkin,” he cried, “you’re to look sharp and put on your best things. It’s not my doing, I can tell you, but the pater says you’re to come in to dinner.”
“Who’s coming?” said Tom.
“What’s that to you? Pretty cheeky that. I suppose you ought to have been asked whether we might have company.”
“Oh, no,” said Tom, good-temperedly; “I only wanted to know.”
“Did you? Well, you won’t know till dinnertime. Now then, don’t stand staring there, but go and wash that dirty face, and see if you can’t come down with your hands and nails fit to be seen.”
“Clean as ever yours are,” was on Tom’s lips; but he remembered his cousin’s trouble of that morning, pitied him, and felt that he had some excuse for feeling irritable and strange.
“Well, go on; look sharp,” said Sam, manoeuvring so as to get behind his cousin.
“All right; I’m going,” replied Tom, who was suspicious of something coming after his cousin’s promise of revenge; and he wanted to remain facing any danger that might be threatening. But he felt that he could not back away, it would look so cowardly, and, daring all, he went slowly to the pegs to hang up his overcoat.
“Get on, will you,” cried Sam; “don’t be all night. We don’t want to wait for you.”
“Oh, I shan’t be long,” said Tom quietly; “I’ll soon be down.”