“Oh!” said Tom. His faith in mankind was reestablished. He had misjudged the enemy. After all, “Old Crusty” was worthy of his hatred. He was very glad. But before he could find an answer the other went on:
“If I were a younger man, Pierson, my chances would be better. But at my time of life losing my position means a good deal. You must see that. And—could you give me until to-morrow evening?”
Tom nodded without looking up. He wanted to say something, he didn’t at all know what. But the elation was all gone, and he felt—oh, miserably mean!
“Thank you,” said the submaster, pleasantly. “And now I think we’d best go home. You should get those wet clothes off as soon as possible.” He looked at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late,” he muttered. “We’ll have to hurry.” He moved off along the edge of the stream, and Tom recovered coat and hat and followed. He didn’t feel happy. His thoughts were fixed on matters other than his footing, and more than once he went into the brook. Presently he broke the silence.
“Are you going to—resign, sir?”
“Doesn’t that seem best, Pierson?”
“I—I don’t know,” muttered Tom. There was another silence, lasting for a few yards. Then, “I—I wish you wouldn’t, sir,” he said with a gulp.
“Eh?” The submaster paused, turned, and faced him in surprise. “What’s that, Pierson?”
Tom cleared his throat.