Both boys stood still as Mark Rivers climbed over the fence and stood between them. John was not sorry for the interruption. He was well aware that in the rough and tumble of a close he had not weight enough to encounter what would have lost him the fight he had so far won. He stood still panting, smiling, and happy.
"Hadn't you boys better shake hands?" said the rector. Tom, furious, was collecting blood from his nose on his handkerchief. Neither boy spoke. "Well, John," said Rivers waiting.
"I'll shake hands, sir, when Tom apologizes."
The rector smiled. Apologies were hardly understood as endings to village fights. "He won't do it," said John with a glance at the swollen face; "another time I'll make him."
"Will you!" exclaimed Tom.
The rector felt that on the whole it might have been better had they fought it out. Now the peacemaking business was clearly not blessed. "You are a nice pair of young Christians," he said. "At all events, you shall not fight any more to-day. Come, John."
The boy put on his jacket and went away with Rivers, who asked presently what was this about. "Mr. Rivers, soon after I came that fellow was rough to Leila; I hit him, and he beat me like—like a dog."
"And you let all these suns go down upon your wrath?"
"There wasn't any wrath, sir. He wouldn't apologize to Leila; he wouldn't do it."
"Oh! indeed."