Quentin felt—as his schoolfellows would have put it—bucked. It is one thing to be called Pig in enmity and derision. Another to be called Piggy—an affectionate diminutive, after all—to the chorus of admiring smacks.
‘Get up, Smithie,’ cried the ring. ‘Want any more?’
It appeared that Smithie did not want any more. He lay, not moving at all, and very white.
‘I say,’ the crowd’s temper veered, ‘you’ve killed him, I expect. I wouldn’t like to be you, Bacon.’
Pig, you notice, for aggravation—Piggy in enthusiastic applause. In the moment of possible tragedy the more formal Bacon.
‘I haven’t,’ said Quentin, very white himself, ‘but if I have he began—by calling names.’
Smithson moved and grunted. A sigh of [p69 relief swept the ring as a breeze sweeps a cornfield.
‘He’s all right. A fair knock out. Piggy’s got the use of ’em. Do Smithie good.’ The voices hushed suddenly. A master was on the scene—the classical master.
‘Fighting?’ he said. ‘The new boy? Who began it?’
‘I did,’ said Quentin, ‘but he began with calling names.’