Chapter One.
At Stourbridge Fair.
“Have at him, Peter!”
“Roll him in the mud!”
“Nay, now, ’twere rarer sport to duck the lubber in the river!”
These and a hundred other taunts were hurled with entire freedom at the head of a sturdy boy, to judge from his round and rosy face not more than eleven years old, by six or eight urchins, who were dancing round him with many unfriendly demonstrations. Apparently there had already been an exchange of hostilities. One of the half-dozen had received a blow in the eye which had half closed that organ and another showed signs of having suffered on the nose, much to the damage of his clothing; these injuries had evidently enraged and excited the sufferers. Prudence, however, was not forgotten. They egged each other to the attack, but at the same time showed signs of hesitation, perhaps for want of a leader who might organise a simultaneous rush.
The boy, meanwhile, though he too bore marks of the fray, for his clothes were torn, and a streak of blood on his cheek showed where he had been hit by a stone or a stick, kept a valiant front. He stood with his back against a fine oak, and flourished a short stout cudgel.
“Come on, come on, all of you!” he shouted. “A broken crown the first shall have, I promise you!”
“He’s threatening thee, Jack Turner. Hit him over the pate!”
“Look at his jerkin—he’s one of the Flemish hogs.”