Two other boys came running across the playground, and voices explained, “New boy.... Fight....”
But curiously enough the fight did not go on. Newton at a slightly greater distance continued to loom threateningly, but did no more than loom. His cheek was very red. “I’ll break your jaw, cutting at me like that,” he said. “You swine!” He used foul and novel terms expressive of rage. He looked at Probyn as if for approval, but Probyn offered none. He continued to threaten, but he did not come within arm’s length again.
“Hit him back, Newton,” several voices urged, but with no success.
“Wait till I start on him,” said Newton.
“Buck up, young Newton,” said Probyn suddenly, “and stop jawing. You began it. I’m not going to help you. Make a ring, you chaps. It’s a fair fight.”
Peter found himself facing Newton in the centre of an interested circle.
Newton was walking crab fashion athwart the circle, swaying with his fists and elbows high. He was now acting a dangerous intentness. “Come on,” he said terribly.
“Hit him, Newton,” said the cadaverous boy. “Don’t wait for him.”
“You started it, Newton,” Probyn insisted. “And he’s hit you fair.”
A loud familiar sound, the clamorous ringing of a bell, struck across the suspended drama. “That’s tea,” said Newton eagerly, dropping his fists. “It’s no good starting on him now.”