It
shook its paw, licked it, shook it again. Joan laughed, and two pigs at the
bottom of the garden heard her and grunted and squealed as they thrust
expectant noses through the palings of their sty. They connected the laugh
with their dinner, but Joan's thoughts were all upon her own.
A few minutes later Thomasin Tregenza called her, and, as they sat down,
Tom arrived from school. He was a brown-faced, dark-eyed, black-haired
youngster, good-looking enough, but not at that moment.
"Aw! Jimmery! fightin' agin," said his mother, viewing two swollen lips, a
bulged ear, and an eye half closed.
"I've downed Matthew Bent, Joan! Ten fair rounds, then he gived up."
"Fight, fight, fight--'tis all you think of," said his parent, while Joan
poured congratulations on the conqueror.
"'Tweer bound to come arter the football, when he played foul, an' I tawld
en so. Now, we'm friends."
"Be he bruised same as you?"
"A sight worse; he's a braave picksher, I tell 'e! I doubt he won't come to
schule this arternoon. That'll shaw. I be gwaine, if I got to crawl theer."
"An' him a year older than what you be!" said Joan.
"Iss, Mat's 'leben year old. I'll have some vinegar an' brown paper to this
here eye, mother."
"Ait your mayte, ait your mayte fust," she answered. "Plague 'pon your
fightin'!"
"But that Bent bwoy's bin at en for months; an' a year older too," said
Joan.
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