The effect on the boys was magical, and they gave way in all directions before the big fisherman who had asked for the “iles” for his shoulders, a medicament he did not seem to require, for his joints worked easily as he threw out his arms with a mowing action, right and left, and with a force that would have laid the inimical lads down in swathes if they had not got out of the way.
“Well done, young Aleck Donne,” he cried. “Licked Big Jem, have yer? Hansum too. Do him good. Get up—d’yer hear—before I give yer my boot! I see yer leading the lot on arter the young gent, like a school o’ dogfish. Hullo, Tom, you was nigher. Why didn’t yer come up and help the young gen’leman afore?”
“’Cause I didn’t know what was going on, matey,” cried the sailor. “Why didn’t yer hail me, Master Aleck?”
“Because I didn’t want to be helped,” cried the boy, huskily, his voice quivering with indignation. “A set of cowards!”
“So they are, Master Aleck,” cried the sailor, joining in the lad’s indignation. “On’y wish I’d knowed. I’d ha’ come up with the boat-hook.”
“Never mind; it arn’t wanted,” said the big fisherman. “Young Mr Donne’s given him a pretty good dressing down, and if this here pack arn’t off while their shoes are good we’ll let him give it to a few more.”
“I want to know what their fathers is about,” growled the sailor. “I never see such a set. They’re allus up to some mischief.”
“Ay, ay, that’s a true word,” cried another fisherman.
“That’s so,” growled the sailor, who, as he spoke, kept on brushing Aleck down and using his forearm as a brush to remove the dust and débris from the champion’s jacket.
“Pity he didn’t leather another couple of ’em,” cried the big fisherman.