"You can put down your hands, Stanley. I'm not going to fight you," said Paul calmly.
"He's moulting again—more feathers!" cried Newall.
"And aren't they white ones?" added Parfitt.
"I'm not going to fight you," repeated Paul, looking Stanley squarely in the face; "but I'll pay you back again—some day."
Stanley did not attempt to stop him this time; so Paul made his way back to his room, and sank upon his bed thinking. He had done nothing of which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek, and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above.
He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, strode indolently in—just for all the world as though he were coming to a picnic.
CHAPTER XLIV
IN THE GARDEN
"It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs—ugh!" said Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat."