He returned an hour later, and instead of entering the sitting-room went straight upstairs to bed, from whence he sent down word by the sympathetic Ann that he was suffering from a bad headache, which he proposed to treat with raw meat applied to the left eye. His nose, which was apparently suffering from sympathetic inflammation, he left to take care of itself, that organ bitterly resenting any treatment whatsoever.
He described the battle to Kate and Ann the next day, darkly ascribing his defeat to a mysterious compound which Jem Hardy was believed to rub into his arms; to a foolish error of judgment at the beginning of the fray, and to the sun which shone persistently in his eyes all the time. His audience received the explanations in chilly silence.
“And he said it was an accident he knocked you down,” he concluded; “he said he hoped you weren't hurt, and he gave me some toffee for you.”
“What did you do with it?” demanded Miss Nugent.
“I knew you wouldn't have it,” replied her brother, inconsequently, “and there wasn't much of it.”
His sister regarded him sharply.
“You don't mean to say you ate it?” she screamed.
“Why not?” demanded her brother. “I wanted comforting, I can tell you.”
“I wonder you were not too—too proud,” said Miss Nugent, bitterly.
“I'm never too proud to eat toffee,” retorted Jack, simply.