Derek, hurrying on to Willey’s Copse, caught sight, along a far hedge, of the big dark laborer, Tulley, who had been his chief lieutenant in the fighting; but, whether the man heard his hail or no, he continued along the hedgeside without response and vanished over a stile.  The field dipped sharply to a stream, and at the crossing Derek came suddenly on the little ‘dot-here dot-there’ cowherd, who, at Derek’s greeting, gave him an abrupt “Good day!” and went on with his occupation of mending a hurdle.  Again that miserable feeling beset the boy, and he hastened on.  A sound of chopping guided him.  Near the edge of the coppice Tom Gaunt was lopping at some bushes.  At sight of Derek he stopped and stood waiting, his loquacious face expressionless, his little, hard eye cocked.

“Good morning, Tom.  It’s ages since I saw you.”

“Ah, ’tis a proper long time!  You ’ad a knock.”

Derek winced; it was said as if he had been disabled in an affair in which Gaunt had neither part nor parcel.  Then, with a great effort, the boy brought out his question: 

“You’ve heard about poor Bob?”

“Yaas; ’tis the end of him.”

Some meaning behind those words, the unsmiling twist of that hard-bitten face, the absence of the ‘sir’ that even Tom Gaunt generally gave him, all seemed part of an attack.  And, feeling as if his heart were being squeezed, Derek looked straight into his face.

“What’s the matter, Tom?”

“Matter!  I don’ know as there’s anything the matter, ezactly!”

“What have I done?  Tell me!”

Tom Gaunt smiled; his little, gray eyes met Derek’s full.

“’Tisn’t for a gentleman to be held responsible.”

“Come!” Derek cried passionately.  “What is it?  D’you think I deserted you, or what?  Speak out, man!”

Abating nothing of his stare and drawl, Gaunt answered: 

“Deserted?  Oh, dear no!  Us can’t afford to do no more dyin’ for you—­that’s all!”

“For me!  Dying!  My God!  D’you think I wouldn’t have—?  Oh!  Confound you!”

“Aye!  Confounded us you ’ave!  Hope you’re satisfied!”

Pale as death and quivering all over, Derek answered: 

“So you think I’ve just been frying fish of my own?”

Tom Gaunt, emitted a little laugh.

“I think you’ve fried no fish at all.  That’s what I think.  And no one else does, neither, if you want to know—­except poor Bob.  You’ve fried his fish, sure enough!”

Stung to the heart, the boy stood motionless.  A pigeon was cooing; the sappy scent from the lopped bushes filled all the sun-warmed air.

“I see!” he said.  “Thanks, Tom; I’m glad to know.”

Without moving a muscle, Tom Gaunt answered: 

“Don’t mention it!” and resumed his lopping.

Derek turned and walked out of the little wood.  But when he had put a field between him and the sound of Gaunt’s bill-hook, he lay down and buried his face in the grass, chewing at its green blades, scarce dry of dew, and with its juicy sweetness tasting the full of bitterness.  And the gray shade stalked out again, and stood there in the warmth of the August day, with its scent and murmur of full summer, while the pigeons cooed and dandelion fluff drifted by. . . .