The new-corner was dressed like a drover, wearing a black coat over his loose blue shirt, and he carried in his right hand a coiled stockwhip.

His face had the grey tinge of wrath, and his lips were set firm on a grim determination.

He walked to a form well up in front, and seated himself, placing his big felt hat on the floor, but retaining his grip on the whip hanging between his knees.
Jacker Mack kicked Dick excitedly.

'Harry Hardy!' he said.
Dick nodded but did not speak; he was staring with all his eyes, as was every man, woman, and child in the congregation.

Harry Hardy had not fulfilled expectations; he had been home five days, and had done nothing to avenge his brother.