Presently, however, catching sight of Ted's face of misery, stained
with one or two furtive tears, his wrath began to melt.
"Well, Ted," said he, "never mind now. It's no use crying over spilt
milk. You hadn't much time to think. I know you wouldn't have had it
happen for a good deal if you'd had time to think. Brace up, and maybe
we'll find some way out of the scrape!"
At this Ted's face brightened a little, and he ejaculated fervently:
"I wish I wasn't such an idiot!"
"Don't fret!" replied Will, and the two trudged on to the little white
gate in front of the yellow cottage, carrying grievous apprehensions
in their hearts.
Meanwhile, Mr. Israel Hand had extricated himself from the tub. He was
not hurt saving as regards his dignity. But his heart was absolutely
bursting with righteous rage. And yet, and yet, it was sweet to think
of the revenge that lay so close within his grasp. No one now could
accuse him of being too severe. Public feeling would justify his
course--and Mr. Israel Hand had a good deal of respect for public
feeling.
He did not pause to remove one atom of the sticky creek mud that
plastered grotesquely his rusty but solemn suit of black. Drenched
and defiled, he felt himself an object of sympathy. He would not even
remove the occasional green leaves and rosebuds that clung to him here
and there with a most ludicrous effect, making one think of a too
festive picnicker. Mr. Hand was quite lacking in a sense of the
ridiculous.
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