"Woodie," she said, using the fearful nickname which has fastened itself upon the child, "wanted to play with Archie's fire engine, and Archie wouldn't let him. Woodie hit him in the mouth and made it bleed, and Archie cried."
I said "Tut, tut."
"I think it's right," said the nurse. "I think children ought to stand up for their rights."
"But, after all," I reminded her, "it was Archie's fire engine."
"Archie's older than Woodie," she said; "he's two and a half and he's bigger."
"That sort of justification," I objected, "if carried far enough, would lead straight to criminal anarchy. After all, the bituminous miners might say that Mr. Palmer was bigger than they are."
"We didn't think they'd fight," she said, cleverly dodging the larger implications of the discussion. "We were watching them, and all of a sudden Woodie swung his left hand and hit Archie in the mouth."
"Which hand?" I exclaimed.
"His left hand," she said.
"Are you sure?" I insisted.