"Surely you've punished him enough, boy!" said Austin.
"He struck me!" Richard's lip quivered. "He dared not come at me with his hands. He struck me with a whip. He'll be telling everybody that he horsewhipped me, and that I went down and begged his pardon. Begged his pardon! A Feverel beg his pardon! Oh, if I had my will!"
"The man earns his bread, Ricky. You poached on his grounds. He turned you off, and you fired his rick."
"And I'll pay him for his loss. And I won't do any more."
"Because you won't ask a favour of him?"
"No! I will not ask a favour of him."
Austin looked at the boy steadily. "You prefer to receive a favour from poor Tom Bakewell?"
At Austin's enunciation of this obverse view of the matter Richard raised his brow. Dimly a new light broke in upon him. "Favour from Tom Bakewell, the ploughman? How do you mean, Austin?"
"To save yourself an unpleasantness you permit a country lad to sacrifice himself for you? I confess I should not have so much pride."
"Pride!" shouted Richard, stung by the taunt, and set his sight hard at the blue ridges of the hills.