“Oh, you are very sympathetic. Thank you. I only hope Marilla won’t have a bad time as she did last summer. Why she’s never fainted since.”
Jack behaved beautifully at the table. No one spoke of the fight. But he kept up a shivery thought of wondering if the ball he had thrown at Marilla had really hurt her. It wasn’t a hard ball, at least not as hard as they had sometimes in the street.
No one appeared very hungry. Mrs. Borden went up to look after Aunt Hetty who seemed disinclined to talk and only wanted a cup of tea. Mr. Borden looked at Marilla who had fallen asleep. Then he went through to the other room and took Jack on his knee.
“Now let’s hear about the fight,” he said, but his voice didn’t seem very stern. 201
Jack really wanted to cry. He felt sort of bruised and beaten though he had knocked down his adversary and would have stamped on him if his mother had not appeared at that moment and carried him off.
“Well, you see”—and the boy winked very hard.
“Who begun it?”
“Why, that Patsy’s a reg’lar bum! He’s called me names—he plays hookey too, and he tried to trip me up and I give him a left-hander, and he called me a stinking pup and ever so many nasty names and then we went at it. Papa, you may strap me if you want to, but if I hadn’t fit the boys would have made fun of me and called me sissy, and we went at it like fury. He made my nose bleed, and I guess I gave him a black eye; and I kicked his shins—he’s got fat legs. He’s just a bounder and teacher said he’d wind up in the reform school. I just wish he would!” with an angry zest.
“How do boys learn such shocking talk?” asked Aunt Florence, “When they never hear it at home, and as for fighting—”
“It is in the outside air and perhaps like 202 measles runs through boyhood. Jack, I want you to stand up for yourself though I don’t admire street fights.”