But in the midst of all his comfort and happiness one continually recurring thought troubled Charlie, that was about Tom Drift. He had promised the mother to be a friend to her son, and although he owned to himself he neither liked nor admired Tom, he could not be easy with this broken promise on his mind.
One day, about a month after the quarrel outside the head master’s study, my master, after a hard inward struggle, conceived the desperate resolve of going himself to the lion in his den and seeking a reconciliation.
He walked quickly to Tom’s study, for fear his resolution might fail him, and knocked as boldly as he could at the door.
“Come in!” cried Tom inside.
Charlie entered, and found his late antagonist sprawling on two chairs, reading a yellow-backed novel.
At the sight of Charlie he scowled, and looked anything but conciliatory.
“What do you want?” he said angrily.
“Oh, Tom Drift!” cried Charlie, plunging at once into his subject, “I do wish you’d be friends; I am so sorry I hurt you.”
This last was an ill-judged reference; Tom was vicious enough about that bruise on his forehead not to need any reminder of the injuries he had sustained in that memorable scuffle.
“Get off with you, you little beast!” he cried. “What do you mean by coming here?”