They shook hands there on the hillside.
Thus it was, and for this reason, that Tommy took upon himself a vow that he has to my best belief never broken.
"Ah, but the motive?" you ask.
Well, maybe the shrug of your shoulder is justified, but, after all, the result was brought about by nature, who seldom errs, and to the poet, who, in spite of all, was really a simple soul—the result was abundantly gratifying.
As they walked home in the evening, Tommy turned to the poet.
"I say, what was it that gipsy fellow said—at the end, you know?"
"Dosta, we'll now go to the tent and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."
Tommy looked grimly into the twilight.
"It would be a jolly good thing to teach that fellow at the Grange," he said, "only I'm blowed if I'll take any gloves."