It was easy to talk of sleeping if you were only the second in an encounter, Tom reflected bitterly. He had slipped away from Treen Hall, and had driven himself home by the light of a full moon. The chill air sweeping over the moors cooled his head, and, to a great extent, his rage. By the time he reached the Manor, and had stabled the cob, he was finding it increasingly difficult to look forward with any pleasure to the morrow—no, not the morrow: it was past midnight, he observed, as he entered the Manor, and saw the tall-case clock at the foot of the stairs.

His mother had gone to bed, but as ill-luck would have it, the Squire was still up, and called to him from the library. ‘Is that you, Tom?’

He was obliged to go into the room, and there was his father, and not alone either. He was playing chess with Sir John Frith. Tom regarded Sir John in the light of an uncle, and was much attached to him, but there was no one he wanted to see less tonight.

‘You are back very early,’ remarked the Squire, shooting a look up at him under his bushy brows.

‘Yes, sir.’ he said, in a careless voice. ‘It was such a squeeze—and Harry and I mean to go out early, to fish the Brown Pool.’

‘Oh!’ said the Squire, his gaze bent again on the board. ‘You have me, John, I fancy.’

‘I think so,’ agreed his guest. ‘Jack going with you, Tom?’

Tom knew the tell-tale colour was rising to his cheeks. ‘Yes—oh yes!’ he stammered, feeling like a Judas—only that it was more likely that it would be he, and not Jack, who would be brought home on a hurdle so few short hours ahead.