His face brightened; the
coast was clear; it was the very morning to play toreador. In a breath
he was through the hedge, and on the way to the village. He approached
it after the manner of a red Indian, only pausing to cut a switch from
a hedge. He had a score to settle with Josiah Wilby, a boy whose
talebearing had procured him his last, well-earned whacking. Fortune
favoured him: he spied his prey playing in careless security with two
other boys on the village green; crept between two cottages; and was
out on him or ever he was aware of the coming of an avenger. At the
sight of Tinker, Josiah bolted for home; but he had not gone twenty
yards before the stinging switch was curling round him. He ran the
harder, howling and roaring; and Tinker accompanied him to the door of
his father's cottage. As the roaring Josiah rushed in, the infuriated
Mrs. Wilby rushed out, and Tinker withdrew. From a convenient
distance, he raised his hat, and protested his regret at having had to
instruct her son in the first principles of honour. Mrs. Wilby took
his politeness as an insult, and with a rustic disregard of his pretty
manners called him a limb, and threatened him with merciless punishment
on the return of her husband.
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