"Then she banged her paint box on the floor in her rage, and came for me again, then I punched her, and serve her right."
"'Tis all lies, lies, lies."
"Believe her, do you?" sneered Albert, lowering at Robbie, "she's a nice one to believe. Do you know what her father did? I do; ugh, ugh, she's a nice one like he was. Look here, just keep your hands off me."
Albert struck a first blow and the two boys were soon fighting like savages. My head was still aching from the two blows that Albert had given me; I forgot them and everything else in the excitement of the struggle. Blows on head, face and shoulders were exchanged. With every stout one Albert received I exulted; every one of Albert's that hurt Robbie hurt me too. Albert was sturdy and strong and even broader than Robbie; on the whole he was getting the best of it; I felt sick and apprehensive. I prayed fervently to God for Robbie to win, promising lordly penances and impossible virtues in return. I would give all my life and health to comforting the heathen if Robbie might win. I would be burnt or eaten alive—if Robbie might win. I employed all the magic I knew, and counted frenzied thirty-sevens between each blow—for luck to Robbie. Prayer is not always answered by return, and Albert's right fist now landed a heavy blow on Robbie's left ear, which nearly felled him; he tottered and paled. So did I as I resolved to intervene. I would fight till I fainted—to prevent Robbie being beaten. I clenched my teeth and hovered awkwardly nearer, wondering how to get in my first blow (or scratch)—when Robbie recovered suddenly and crashed with his fist between Albert's eyes. Now it was the latter's turn to stagger. My spirits rose. Now Albert picked himself up again. Both were battered. Robbie had a bleeding ear (to match my own), Albert a black eye and broken nose. The fight went on. Robbie began to get the upper hand; I could see the loser's look on Albert's face. "Robbie will win! Robbie will win!" said Instinct exulting. I thought for a moment of that tame fixture, Susan Durgles versus Seth Baker, when my main emotion was mere pity for Seth: water to the wine of joy now coursing through my veins as I watched Robbie pound Albert more victoriously every moment. Albert was now desperate, came closer, tried to grip Robbie and push him to the ground. For a moment prize fight turned to wrestling bout.
The harmony of a choir, singing carols on the Quay outside, fell suddenly on our ears. It may have been the Parish Church choir, or a glee party from the Wesleyan Chapel: sinners, in any case, as Miss Glory would have said. They were singing a carol with a friendly wave-like tune, merry, yet sad too, as Christmas songs should be: It came upon the midnight clear—though I did not know the words. The tune revived the fighting. The boys got free from each other's grip; blows were resumed. The end came at last with a swift, terrific stroke on Albert's shoulder, which knocked him flat. In a second Robbie was kneeling on his body and had pinioned his arms. The victim scowled, the victor showed modest pride, the spectator exulted like a savage.
"There now," said Robbie, "that's what you get for striking a girl. Worse another time. Say you're sorry you hit Mary. Say you were a brute."
Albert scowled, growled, made efforts to get free, failed.
"No good, you'll stay here till you say it; 'I'm sorry I hit Mary and I was a brute.'"