Peter drew himself erect. “My sister doesn’t.”
The boy raised his eyes and met Kay’s. Ashamed of himself, but more ashamed of showing it, he spoke stubbornly, “She’s doing it now.”
There was silence. A small strained voice, which sounded not at all like Peter’s, said, “I never hurt people. I never fought in my life. But if I did ever fight, I’d like to punch your head. And—and I think I could do it.”
The boy lost his shame and became happy. “Guess you can’t. Anyhow, why don’t you have a shot at it?”
Without waiting for a reply, he commenced to take off his coat and to roll up his shirt-sleeves. He did it with an air of competence which was calculated to intimidate. All the while he carried on a monologue. “So he’d like to punch my head—my head. Why, I could get his goat by just looking at him. In America I’ve licked boys twice his size, and they hadn’t curly hair, either.” He faced Peter, doubling his fore-arm, and inviting him to feel his muscle. “See that. Say, kid, I’m sorry for you.—Ready?”
Peter nodded; before his nod had ended something hit him on the nose. He threw up his arms to defend himself, but the something seemed all about him. Always smiling into his own was the freckled face of a pleasant looking boy—so pleasant that it was hard to believe that it was he who was doing the hurting. And Peter—he hit back valiantly; but somewhere at the back of his brain he kept on seeing pictures of the boy dead. It was disconcerting; every now and then, when he should have pressed home his advantage, he shortened his blows intentionally, with the strong weakness of the humanitarian.
A bird rose twittering out of a hedge. From a meadow across the road, a cow hung its mild head over, looked shocked, switched its tail disapprovingly, mooed loudly, swung round and lumbered away uncertainly, like a distressed old lady with gathered skirts, in a futile endeavor to bring help.
Peter saw it all. His faculties were unnaturally and desperately alert. It was odd how time lengthened its minutes—how much he saw and heard: the deep blue stillness of sky-lagoons, the foam and wash of traveling clouds, the erect and listening quiet of tree-sentinels and hedges, and, somewhere out of sight, the sigh-sigh-sighing of wind in distant country.
There was a cry behind him. How long had he been fighting? He could not guess. Between himself and the boy rushed a little girl. Her small hands commenced to beat the boy furiously. She could not speak; she was choked with sobbing. The boy’s arms fell to his side; he let her aim her puny blows at his impudent face, making no attempt to stop her. Suddenly she swayed and sank into the flowers at the side of the road. Peter stooped; his arms went about her. The boy looked on, gazing from these strange invaders to the waiting trike. It was he who was excluded now. He wanted to say something—opened his mouth several times and halted. At last he stumbled out the words.
“I’m—I’m sorry. And you’re not just anybody.” And then, “I say, you’re plucky ‘uns—won’t you shake hands?”