He ought to have taken his beating quietly. Even if he had
"blubbed" they might afterwards have taken him to their bosoms in
understanding and inarticulate sympathy. As it was, he was a devil--a
foreign devil, outside the caste for ever.
Only the small red-haired boy, waiting cautiously till everyone else
was out of sight, came after him as he trailed forlornly down the
street. He was still chewing meditatively at the core of his apple,
and his eyes, vividly blue amidst the freckles, considered Robert out
of their corners with solemn astonishment.
"I say, Stonehouse, you can fight."
Robert nodded. He was still breathless.
"I--I'm used to it."
"I'm glad you kicked that beast Saunders. You hurt him, too. I saw
him make a face. I wish I could fight like that. But I'm no good at
it. I'm not 'fraid--not really--but I just hate it. You like it,
don't you?"
Robert swaggered a little.
"Rather."
There was a moment's silence,
"I say--if you like it--would you mind licking Dickson Minor for me?
He's always ragging me--you see, I've a rotten time--because of my
hair, and about playing the piano. Dickson's the worst. I'd be
awfully glad, if you wouldn't mind, of course."
Robert surreptitiously wiped the blood from his nose on to his sleeve.
As usual he had no handkerchief. A warm, delicious solace flowed over
his battered spirit. His heart swelled till it hurt him. It opened
wide to the little red-haired boy.
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