“If you are really sorry—” said his father.
“I'm not sorry I went,” said Jeremy, “but I'm sorry I hurt Mother.”
The end of it was that Jeremy received six strokes on the hand with a ruler. Mr. Cole was not good at this kind of thing, and twice he missed Jeremy's hand altogether, and looked very foolish. It was not an edifying scene. Jeremy left the room, his head high, his spirit obstinate; and his father remained, puzzled, distressed, at a loss, anxious to do what was right, but unable to touch his son at all.
Jeremy went up to his room. He opened his window and looked out. He could smell the burnt leaves of the bonfire. There was no flame now, but he fancied that he could see a white shadow where it had been. Then, on the wind, came the music of the Fair.
“Tum—te—Tum... Tum—te—Tum... Whirr—Whirr—Whirr—Bang—Bang.”
Somewhere an owl cried, and then another owl answered.
He rubbed his sore hand against his trousers; then, thinking of his black horse, he smiled.
He was a free man. In a week he would go to school; then he would go to College; then he would be a horsetrainer.
He was in bed; faintly into the dark room, stole the scent of the bonfire and the noise of the Fair.
“Tum—te-Tum... Tum—te—Tum...”