The small fry, startled out of caution, were
tittering in hysterical excitement.
"Th-thanks--you keep out of it--I'll manage him."'
The second beating was more drastic. The third was ineffectual. The
spotty youth, besides being exhausted, was demoralized with sheer
bewilderment. He was not clever, and when events ran out of their ruts
he lost his head. He had made the same discovery that the Terrace boys
had made long since, namely that short of killing Robert Stonehouse
there was no way of beating him, and he drew back, panting,
dishevelled, his manly collar limp and his eyes wild.
"There--that'll teach you----"
Robert laughed. He put his tongue out. He knew it was vulgar but it
was the only retaliation he had breath for. His clothes were dusty and
torn, his nose bloody. He was a frightful object. But he knew that he
had won.
The spotty youth wiped his hands on his handkerchief with exaggerated
disgust.
"Dirty little beast. I wouldn't touch him again--not with the end of a
barge pole."
He never did. Nobody did. Though he did not know it, it was Robert's
last fight. But he had won immunity at a high cost. The small fry
skirted him as they went out through the school gates. It was more
than fear. They distrusted him. He was not one of them. He did not
keep their laws. His wickedness was not their wickedness, his courage
not their courage. He ought not to have fought a boy in the sixth
form.
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