Richard's nature, left to itself, wanted little more than an indication of the proper track, and when he said, "Tell me what I can do, Austin ?" he had fought the best half of the battle.

His voice was subdued.

Austin put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"You must go down to Farmer Blaize." "Well!" said Richard, sullenly divining the deed of penance.
"You'll know what to say to him when you're there." The boy bit his lip and frowned.

"Ask a favour of that big brute, Austin?
I can't!" "Just tell him the whole case, and that you don't intend to stand by and let the poor fellow suffer without a friend to help him out of his scrape." "But, Austin," the boy pleaded, "I shall have to ask him to help off Tom Bakewell! How can I ask him, when I hate him ?" Austin bade him go, and think nothing of the consequences till he got there.
Richard groaned in soul.
"You've no pride, Austin." "Perhaps not." "You don't know what it is to ask a favour of a brute you hate." Richard stuck to that view of the case, and stuck to it the faster the more imperatively the urgency of a movement dawned upon him.
"Why," continued the boy, "I shall hardly be able to keep my fists off him!" "Surely you've punished him enough, boy ?" said Austin.
"He struck me!" Richard's lip quivered.

"He dared not come at me with his hands.