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. 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. If only Francey could see him
now--the defender of the oppressed. But he did not dare to think of
that. After all, he might cry.

He nodded negligently.

"All right. I don't mi