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Updated: June 13, 2025
"My boy is wilful, and he may have been a bit mischievous, but he could not be guilty of such cowardly tricks as these." "No," said Tom, with his mouth full of pork-pie; "of course he could not. Dick isn't a coward!" "I humbly apologise, Mrs Winthorpe," said Marston, smiling, "and you must forgive me. A man who has been shot at has his temper spoiled."
"Then I am wrong once more, Dick," said Mr Marston. "I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?" "Of course I will, Mr Marston," said Dick huskily, as he took the extended hand; "but I don't think you ought to be so ready to think ill of me." "And I say the same, Mr Marston," said Mrs Winthorpe.
"Yes," he said, "it's a circumstance to be thankful for, because, like Winthorpe himself, though for different reasons, I'm unable to contemplate marriage." His voice sank sorrowfully, and he made a sorrowful movement. "Oh ?" said Maria Dolores, her sympathy becoming more explicit. "Winthorpe's too beastly puritanical and I'm too beastly poor," said he. "Oh," she murmured.
His feet were wet and cold, heavy with clay. But he went on persistently, like a wind, straight forward, as if to his fate. There were great gaps in his consciousness. He was conscious that he was at Winthorpe hamlet, but quite unconscious how he had got there. And then, as in a dream, he was in the long street of Beldover, with its street-lamps.
"Yes, my boy, he is very bad indeed, and dangerously wounded," replied the doctor; "but, please God, I think I can pull him through." "Tell me tell me!" faltered Mrs Winthorpe piteously. "It is a painful thing to tell a lady," said the doctor kindly; "but I will explain. Mrs Winthorpe, he has a terrible wound.
But the more Dick Winthorpe thought, the more he grew determined that he would not speak unless he felt quite sure. It was one day at the end of the fortnight that Mr Marston tried him again, and Dick told him that his father would soon be able to speak for himself, and till then he would not say a word.
It must have been with something of the feelings of the old navigators who touched at some far western isle, that Dick Winthorpe landed from his boat, and secured it by knotting together some long rushes and tying the punt rope to them.
It was perhaps an insensate trick; but there was so much of the frank manly British boy in Dick Winthorpe that he forgot everything in the fact that big Hickathrift, the man he had known from a child the great bluff fellow who had carried him in his arms and hundreds of times made him welcome in that wonderland, his workshop, where he was always ready to leave off lucrative work to fashion him eel-spear or leaping-pole, or to satisfy any other whim that was on the surface that this old friend was being menaced by a great savage of a stranger nearly as big as himself, and backed by a roaring excited crowd who seemed ready for any outrage.
"And do the people about seem as dissatisfied as ever about the work?" said Mrs Winthorpe. "I don't hear much about it," said the squire. "They'll soon settle down to it when they find how things are improved. Well, Dick, plenty of sport to-day?" "Dave got plenty of pie-wipes' eggs, father. I didn't find many." "Got enough to give Mr Marston a few?" "Oh, yes, plenty for that!
Winthorpe that's his name had for years been a freethinker, far too intellectual and enlightened, and that sort of thing, you know, to believe any such old wives' tale as the Christian Religion. He and I used to have arguments, tremendous ones, in which, of course, neither in the least shook the other. Darwin and Spencer, with a dash of his native Emerson, were religion enough for him.
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