"I wouldn't be him," interrupted Peter.
"No, but if you were, and you tried to do what he did, I wouldn't hit you with a stick."
Peter's mind floundered in a futile effort to understand.
"I can lick him tomorrow," he ventured.
With a little laugh she pulled him to the scattered flowers. He helped her pick them up and put them into one big bouquet. Her soft hair touched his hands and he found it easier to look into her eyes. His heart beat fast and he was strangely happy. He forgot his swelling eye and a stiffening lip, but he did think of his father. He would surely beg his father to live at Five Fingers. It would be wonderful there, with someone like Mona to know and fight for.
Then he thought of his message.
"I've got something for Simon McQuarrie," he said. "Dad told me to hurry with it."
"And you're hungry."
She took his hand again, in a possessive and matter-of-fact way. There was something maternal about it, something so sweetly glad and friendly that a great wave of comradeship swept through Peter. He was no longer nervous or afraid. Tonight or tomorrow his father would come, and they would all be happy.