“He will hate you, if you do. Leave him to fight his own battles.”
As he spoke the little wretches let fly a shower of small missiles, and a stone struck the boy smartly on the neck. He leapt about at once, and came rushing back with clenched fists and a blazing face. The mob dispersed before his onset; but he cut off one panic-stricken unit of it, and smote the lubberly coward with a thorny crash into the hedge. His eyes looked red, his breast was heaving stormily; he would have done some evil, I think, had not Mr. Sant run and put himself between. Then he backed away, without a word; but his cheeks were quite white now, and the wings of his nostrils going like a little winded horse’s.
Consternation held the scattered enemy. They stood each where he had been halted by the unexpected vision of their rector and me. The assaulted one, sitting on spikes, stuffed his face into his elbow and boo-hoo’d from stentorian lungs. Mr. Sant smiled with rather an ugly look.
“Blubber away, Derrick,” he said. “You’ve been well served for a dirty act.” Then he scowled abroad. “Are you English boys, to kick a downed one! Not one of you, cowards, but if he passed this Harrier alone would hug his fists in his pockets! It is no shame of his, but yours. To bait him ten to one—O! what fine courageous fellows! But I’ll have no more of it; d’ye hear? I’ll have no more of it!”
He stamped, in a little access of passion, and again turned sharply on the fallen.
“Get up!” he said.
His tone was so peremptory that the boy rose, snuffling and wiping his eyes with his cuff.
“It was you threw the stone,” said Mr. Sant. “I saw you. Very well, then, it’s got to be one of two things: fight, or put your tail between your legs and run. Quick now! Which is it to be?”
Derrick did not move, but raised his wail to a pitch so artificially dismal that I had to laugh.
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Sant, still very grim for his part, and snapped himself round. “He means fight, Harrier.”