Come on, what's she like? Who is she?
"He doesn't know."
"She isn't his mother."
"He says she isn't."
"P'r'aps he doesn't know that either. P'r'aps that's what she
says----"
The full extent of the innuendo, like the majority of the audience, he
did not understand, but he saw the wink which passed between the two
elder boys. Ever since that day when he had gathered flowers for his
mother in Kensal Green Cemetery he had known of dark things, just
beyond his understanding. He had wandered in the midst of them too
long not to be aware of them on the instant. And it was against
Christine--who had suffered from them so terribly--they dared---- A
great sigh tore itself free from him. He put his head down. He flew
at the spotty youth like a stone from a catapult, and they went down
together in a cloud of dust.
After that, as in most of his uneven, desperate encounters, he hardly
knew what happened. He felt nothing. In reality it was an absurd
spectacle. The spotty youth, bounding up from his momentary
discomfiture, caught Robert by the collar and smacked him shamefully,
severely, as the outrage merited. And when justice had been satisfied,
he released the culprit, and Robert, without pause, returned, fighting
with fists and feet and teeth, as he had learnt to do from dire
necessity. It was unprecedented. The spotty youth gasped. His
companions offered intervention.
"I'll hold the beggar."
But honour was at stake.
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