He put his head in at the window as he went towards the gate.
"I'm goin' out, mother," he said in a voice which expressed stern sorrow rather than anger.
"All right, dear," said Mrs. Brown sweetly.
"I may not be coming back—never," he added darkly.
"All right, dear," said William's mother.
William walked with slow dignity down to the gate.
"All I say is," he remarked pathetically to the gatepost as he passed, "I might as well be dead for all anyone thinks of tryin' to make my life a bit happier."
He walked down to the village—a prey to black dejection. What people came away for holidays for beat him. At home there was old Jumble to take for a walk and throw sticks for, and the next-door cat to tease and the butcher's boy to fight, and various well-known friends and enemies to make life interesting. Here there was—well, all he said was, he might as well be dead.
A char-à-banc stood outside the post-office, and people were taking their places in it. William looked at it contemptuously. He began to listen in a bored fashion to the conversation of two young men.
"I'm awfully glad you ran down," one of them was saying to the other; "we can have a good tramp together. To tell you the truth I'd got so bored that I'd taken a ticket for this char-à-banc show.... Can't stand 'em really."