“Just one shy at him!” pleaded Ripton, with his eye on Farmer Blaize’s broad mark, and his whole mind drunken with a sudden revelation of the advantages of light troops in opposition to heavies.

“No,” said Richard, imperatively, “no stones,” and marched briskly away.  Ripton followed with a sigh.  His leader’s magnanimity was wholly beyond him.  A good spanking mark at the farmer would have relieved Master Ripton; it would have done nothing to console Richard Feverel for the ignominy he had been compelled to submit to.  Ripton was familiar with the rod, a monster much despoiled of his terrors by intimacy.  Birch-fever was past with this boy.  The horrible sense of shame, self-loathing, universal hatred, impotent vengeance, as if the spirit were steeped in abysmal blackness, which comes upon a courageous and sensitive youth condemned for the first time to taste this piece of fleshly bitterness, and suffer what he feels is a defilement, Ripton had weathered and forgotten.  He was seasoned wood, and took the world pretty wisely; not reckless of castigation, as some boys become, nor oversensitive as to dishonour, as his friend and comrade beside him was.

Richard’s blood was poisoned.  He had the fever on him severely.  He would not allow stone-flinging, because it was a habit of his to discountenance it.  Mere gentlemanly considerations has scarce shielded Farmer Blaize, and certain very ungentlemanly schemes were coming to ghastly heads in the tumult of his brain; rejected solely from their glaring impracticability even to his young intelligence.  A sweeping and consummate vengeance for the indignity alone should satisfy him.  Something tremendous must be done; and done without delay.  At one moment he thought of killing all the farmer’s cattle; next of killing him; challenging him to single combat with the arms, and according to the fashion of gentlemen.  But the farmer was a coward; he would refuse.  Then he, Richard Feverel, would stand by the farmer’s bedside, and rouse him; rouse him to fight with powder and ball in his own chamber, in the cowardly midnight, where he might tremble, but dare not refuse.

“Lord!” cried simple Ripton, while these hopeful plots were raging in his comrade’s brain, now sparkling for immediate execution, and anon lapsing disdainfully dark in their chances of fulfilment, “how I wish you’d have let me notch him, Ricky!  I’m a safe shot.  I never miss.  I should feel quite jolly if I’d spanked him once.  We should have had the beat of him at that game.  I say!” and a sharp thought drew Ripton’s ideas nearer home, “I wonder whether my nose is as bad as he says!  Where can I see myself?”

To these exclamations Richard was deaf, and he trudged steadily forward, facing but one object.