[XIV]
IN WHICH TOMMY CONVERSES WITH THE PALE BOY
A sky of stolid grey had communicated a certain spirit of melancholy to the country-side—a spirit not wholly out of keeping with Tommy's mood.
The holidays were nearly over. The doctor was busy, the poet had a cold, Madge had been sent away to school, and Tommy, for the nonce, felt a little at a loss to know how to occupy these last mournful days of freedom.
As he tramped, a trifle moodily, down the lane, a point of light against a dark corner of the hedge caught his eye, and further examination revealed the pale boy, smoking a cigarette.
Tommy had not yet aspired to tobacco, and for a moment felt a little resentful.
But the memory of last week's battle restored his equanimity, and, indeed, brought with it a little complacent contempt for the pale boy and his ways.
"Hullo," said Tommy, pulling up in front of his reposing foe, and not sorry to have some one to talk to.
The pale boy looked at him coldly.