his gun as a matter of course.

And Tom went off across the Coupée into Little Sark, nursing his black
devil and thinking vaguely and gloomily of the things he would like to
do. For to rob a man of his rights in this fashion was past a man's
bearing, and if he was to be ruined for the sake of that solemn-faced
slip of a Nance and that young limb of a Bernel, he might as well take
payment for it all, and cut their crowing, and give them something to
remember him by.

He had no very definite intentions. His mind was a chaos of whirling
black furies. He would like to pay somebody out for the wrongs under
which he was suffering--who, or how, was of little moment. He had been
wounded, he wanted to hit back.

He turned off the Coupée to the left and struck down through the gorse
and bracken towards the Pot, and then crept along the cliffs and across
the fields towards La Closerie--still for three days his, in the
reversion; after that, gone from him irrevocably--a galling shame and
not to be borne by any man that called himself a man.

Should he lie in the hedge and shoot down the old man as he came in from
those cursed mines which had started all the trouble? Or should he walk
right into the house and shoot and fell whatever he came across? If he
must suffer it would at all events be some satisfaction to think that he
had made them suffer too.

From where he stood he could look right in through the open door, and
could hear their voices--Nance and Bernel and Mrs. Hamon--the
interlopers, the schemers, the stealers of his rights.