He could almost hear the words. Perhaps his mother was weeping now. His father—wild-eyed and white-lipped—was pacing his study, waiting for news, eager to atone for his unkindness to his missing son. Perhaps he had the bugle on the table ready to give back to him. Perhaps he'd even bought him a new one.
He imagined the scene of his return. He would be nobly forgiving. He would accept the gift of the new bugle without a word of reproach. His heart thrilled at the thought of it.
He was getting jolly hungry. It must be after lunch-time. But it would spoil it all to go home too early.
Here he caught sight of a minute figure regarding him with a steady gaze and holding a paper bag in one hand.
William stared down at him.
"Wot you dressed up like that for?" said the apparition, with a touch of scorn in his voice.
William looked down at his sacred uniform and scowled. "I'm a scout," he said loftily.
"'Cout?" repeated the apparition, with an air of polite boredom. "Wot's your name?"
"William."
"Mine's Thomas. Will you catch me a wopse? Look at my wopses!"