Jim Batley chose to stay. He was a tall, thin, obstinate fellow, of eleven, and meant to wait and speak to David. Given to following his own way whenever he could, in spite of his father and mother, it occurred to him that perhaps David might be persuaded to take Timberdale first and the train after.
He amused himself with the dead leaves while he waited. But it seemed that David took a long time dressing. The truck stood at the door; Jim stamped and whistled, and shied a few stones at the topmost article, which was Mrs. Hill’s potato saucepan. Presently Hill came out and began to unload, beginning with the saucepan.
“Where’s Davy?” demanded Jim, from a safe distance. “Ain’t he ready yet?”
“Now if you don’t get off about your business I’ll make you go,” was Hill’s answer, keeping his back turned to the boy. “You haven’t got nothing to stop here for.”
“I’m stopping to speak to Davy.”
“Davy was away out o’ here afore daylight and took the first train to Worcester. He’s a’most there by now.”
Young boys are not clever reasoners; but certain contradictory odds and ends passed through Jim’s disappointed mind. For one thing, he had seen Hill unlock the door.
“I don’t think he’s gone out yet. I see his boots.”
“What boots?” asked Hill, putting a bandbox inside the door.