We know what his sulks mean.
No one will get a word from him for hours, perhaps a day; no attempts at conciliation will tempt him back to the game, no friendly talk will chase the cloud from his face.

There he goes, slouching up the playground into the house, and he will skulk upstairs to his study and slam the door, and that's all we shall see of Tom till suppertime.
Once, I remember, young Jim Friendly, a new boy, tried hard to coax Tom back into good humour.

They had been having a match at something, I forget what, and Jim happened to say that something Tom did was against the rules.

Tom, as usual, grew sulky and walked off.
"What, you aren't going in ?" said Jim, disconcerted.

No answer.