“Well, what in the third place?” said Kenrick, interested to observe Walter’s hesitation.
“In the third place,” said Walter, “I don’t say it from conceit—but that boy’s no match for me.”
To anyone who glanced at the figures of the two boys this was obvious enough, although Walter was a year the younger of the two. The rest began to respect Walter accordingly as a sensible little man, but Tracy was greatly offended by the last remark, and Jones, who was a bully and had a grudge against Walter for baffling his impertinence, exclaimed, “Don’t you be afraid, Tracy. I’ll back you. Give him something to heat his cold blood.”
Fired at once by taunts and encouragements, Tracy did as he was bid, and struck Walter on the face. The boy started angrily, and at first seemed as if he meant to return the blow with compound interest, but suddenly changing his intention, he seized Tracy round the waist, and in spite of all kicking and struggling, fairly carried the humiliated descendant of the Howards and Tracys to a far corner of the room, where, amid a shout of laughter, he deposited him with the laconic suggestion, “Don’t you be a fool.”
Walter’s blood was now up, and thinking that he might as well show, from the very first, that he was not to be bullied, or made a butt with impunity, he walked straight to the stove, and looking full at Jones (who had inspired him already with strong disgust), he said, “You called me a coward just now; I’m not a coward, though I don’t like fighting for nothing. I’m not a bit afraid of you, though you forced that fellow to hit me just now.”
“Aren’t you? Saucy young cub! Then take that,” said Jones, enforcing the remark with a box on the ear.
“And you take that,” said Walter, returning the compliment with as much energy as if he had been playing at the game of Gif es wetter.
Jones, astonished beyond measure, sprang forward, clenched his two fists, squared, and blustered with great demonstrativeness. He was much Walter’s senior, and was utterly taken by surprise at his audacity; but he seemed in no hurry to avenge the insult.
“Well,” said Walter, heaving with indignation, “why don’t you hit me again?”
Jones looked at his firm and determined little assailant with some alarm, slowly tucked up the sleeves of his coat, turned white and red, and—didn’t return the blow. The tea-bell beginning to ring at that moment gave him a convenient excuse for breaking off the altercation. He told his friends that he was on the point of thrashing Walter when the bell rang, but that he thought it a shame to fight a new fellow—“and in cold blood, too,” he added, adopting Walter’s language, but not his sincerity.