The fellow got up scowling and told the lad to bring his bag.
“You'll hear more about this,” he rejoined and slouched off.
Festing went back, and Helen started when he jumped across the ditch. His jacket was torn, his lip was cut, and his face was bruised. He looked dishevelled, but not at all embarrassed. In fact, there was a gleam of half-humorous satisfaction in his eyes.
“The snares are all cut up,” he said. “I broke the fellow's stick and threw away the pegs.”
Helen felt a strange desire to laugh. There was something ridiculous in his naïve triumph, but she was not really amused. In fact, her confused sensations were puzzling.
“Did you hurt him?” she asked.
“I hope so,” said Festing. “I rather think I did and don't expect he'll come back while I'm about. However, as I can't come here as often as I'd like, it might be better to see your agent. In the meantime, we'll look for some mushrooms.”
“But don't you want to bathe your face?”
“I forgot that I probably look the worse for wear,” said Festing, who wiped his cut lip. “Still if I met your mother, she might get a shock, and now I come to think of it, I'm no doubt jarring you, so I'll go off and see your agent if you'll tell me where he lives.”
“It's some distance, and we don't do things so quickly here. I must talk to my mother first. Besides, the agent may not have got up.”