Save for the vitality of his hold, he might have been on the verge of
slumber. And Toby, crouched with his head in his hands, was as a carven
image, neither stirring nor seeming to breathe.
The man moved at length, flicking his eyes open as though some unseen
force had prodded him into action. He spoke with a brevity that might
have denoted some sternness but for the close grip of his arm.
"Have you been sulking all this time?"
Toby started at his voice and burrowed a little deeper. "No, sir."
"Well, why didn't you come before?" said Saltash.
"I was--afraid," whispered Toby piteously.
"Afraid! Why on earth?" Saltash's hand suddenly found and fondled
the fair head. His speech was no longer curt, but gentle, with a
half-quizzical tenderness. "Aren't you rather an ass, boy? What was
there to be afraid of?"
Toby could not tell him. He only, after a moment, slipped down in a
sitting position by Saltash's side and rested with more assurance against
the encircling arm.
"Come! I didn't hurt you much," said Saltash.
"No, sir. You didn't hurt me--at all." Toby stammered a little.
"You--you--you meant--not to hurt me, didn't you?"
"I must hit harder next time evidently," observed Saltash, with a squeeze
of the narrow shoulders.
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