By this time he had reached the far edge of the pine-wood, and stepped down into the lane, to begin walking fast with his head hanging, and a feeling of depression and misery making him long for the peace of his own little room.
But still his brain kept on actively at work, forming little pictures of the events of the afternoon, while his thoughts in his mental musings took the form of short, terse sentences.
“I hate fighting.—That’s making friends with him.—He’ll always hate me now.—Mr Maxted’s all wrong.—But Pete does love his dog.—How queer about that sixpence.”
“Good-afternoon, Tom.”
The boy stopped short with his heart beating, to find Mr Maxted seated upon a stump in the side of the fir-wood, evidently enjoying the glorious sunset tints spreading from the horizon nearly to the zenith.
“I—I didn’t see you, sir,” faltered Tom.
“Of course you did not, or you wouldn’t have gone by. What a lovely sunset! Why, my good lad, whatever have you been doing?”
The Vicar rose from his seat and came forward, giving the boy a startled look.
“Your face is horribly bruised, and—did you fall from some tree? My dear lad, it’s terrible—just as if you had been fighting.”
“I have,” said Tom bluntly, as he stood with his head erect, but his nearly-closed eyes fixed upon the ground.