The last was an heroic effort, and it brought Rex round to a sitting position.
“Did I?” he uttered. His own face was tear-stained, and a fine bruise was rapidly developing near his eye. “Well, I blubbed, too. I—I guess it’s a bit queer, being away from every one you know.”
“Well, we’re no better than each other,” said Billy quaintly. “Let’s be pals.”
They shook hands solemnly. Mr. Weston slipped away, chuckling as he went.
“I wouldn’t take any notice of anything peculiar in the boys’ appearance,” he told his wife and the twins. “They’ve been making friends, and it’s a process involving bruises. But it’s all right.” He told the story.
Billy guided Rex by devious paths to the bathroom presently, there to remove as much evidence of warfare as could be treated with soap and water. They appeared at tea with extremely red and shiny faces, coloured here and there with bruises, and, in Billy’s case, with a nose resembling a beetroot in shape and colour. No one took any apparent notice of these defects. The twins plied their pupil with food—for which he had little appetite—and Mrs. Weston asked him kindly if he had enjoyed his afternoon.
“I’ve had a very nice time, thank you, Mrs. Weston,” responded Rex politely. “We’ve been in the orchard.”
“Ah, it’s nice there,” said John Weston gravely. His eyes met his son’s for a moment, and Billy flushed at something he saw in them.
“Do I look rum?” he demanded of Rex when, released from society, they wandered out into the garden.
“Pretty, rum,” Rex said, regarding him critically. “Do I?”