“Of course not,” said the boy. “That’s the sort of damned rot people talk. They think we’d do anything.”
He suddenly sat down on the turf, and Jeremy sat down too, dramatically picturing to himself the kind of thing that would happen did his father turn the corner and find him there amicably in league with his enemy. There followed a queer in-and-out little conversation, bewildering in some strange way, so that they seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the thick velvet pile of the green downs, lost to all the world that was humming like a top beyond the barrier.
“I liked your coming into the yard about your sister. That was damned plucky of you.”
For some reason hidden deep in the green down Jeremy had never before known praise that pleased him so deeply. He flushed, kicking the turf with the heels of his boots.
“You were cads to hit my sister,” he said. He let Hamlet’s collar go, and the dog went over and smelt the dirty trousers and sniffed at the rough, reddened hand.
“How old are you?”
“Ten and a half.”
“I know. You’re called Cole. You’re the son of the parson at the rectory.”
Jeremy nodded his head. The boy was now sprawling his length, his head resting on his arms, his thick legs stretched out.
“You’re awfully strong,” Jeremy suddenly said.