“Why!—I’d lick you with one hand,” continued Newton.
Peter said nothing. But he regarded his antagonist very intently.
“Skinny little snipe,” said Newton. “Whaddyou think you’d do to me?”
“Hit him, Newton,” said a cadaverous boy with freckles.
“Hit him, Newton. He’s too cocky,” said another. “Flick his silly nose again and see.”
“I’ll hit him ’f’e wants it,” said Newton, and buttoned up his jacket in a preparatory way.
“Hit him, Newton,” other voices urged.
“Let him put up his fists,” said Newton.
“Do that when I please,” said Peter rather faintly.
Newton had seemed at first just about Peter’s size. Now he seemed very much larger. All the boys seemed to have grown larger. They were gathering in a vast circle of doom round a minute and friendless Peter. Probyn loomed over him like a figure of fate. Peter wondered whether he need have hit at Newton. It seemed now a very unwise thing indeed to have done. Newton was alternately swaying towards him and swaying away from him, and repeating his demand for Peter to put his hands up. He seemed on the verge of flicking again. He was going to flick. Probyn watched them both critically. Then with a rapid movement of the mind Peter realized that Newton’s face was swaying now well within his range; the moment had come, and desperately, with a great effort and a wide and sweeping movement of the arm, he smote hard at Newton’s cheek. Smack. A good blow. Newton recoiled with an expression of astonishment. “You—swine!” he said.