“Well, suppose it is; he won’t hurt us. We can easily shoot him if he comes here.”
“But the letter,” said Mark.
“What letter?”
Mark had started for his clothes, which were in a heap on the sward, he seized his coat, and drew a note much frayed from one of the pockets. He looked at it, heaved a deep sigh, and ran with all his might to intercept Jack. Bevis watched him tearing across the field and laughed; then he sat down on the grass to wait for him.
Mark, out of breath and with thistles in his feet, would never have overtaken the dog-cart had not Jack seen him coming and stopped. He could not speak, but handed up the note in silence, more like Cupid than messengers generally. He panted so that he could not run away directly, as he had intended.
“You rascal,” said Jack, flicking at him with his whip. “How long have you had this in your pocket?”
Mark tried to run away, he could only trot; Jack turned his mare’s head, as if half-inclined to drive after him.
“If you come,” said Mark, shaking his fist, “we’ll shoot you and stick a spear into you. Aha! you’re afraid! aha!”
Jack was too eager to read his note to take vengeance. Mark walked away jeering at him. The reins hung down, and the mare cropped as the master read. Mark laughed to think he had got off so easily, for the letter had been in his pocket a week, though he had faithfully promised to deliver it the same day—for a shilling. Had he not been sent home with the sails it might have remained another week till the envelope was fretted through.
Frances asked if he had given it to Jack.