There was an old crony of his uncle’s, an ex-prize fighter. To this man Anthony made appeal. Mr. Dobb was in a quandary. Moved by Mrs. Newt’s warnings and exhortations, he had lately taken up religion and was now running a small public-house in one of the many mining villages adjoining Millsborough.
“It’s agin ‘the Book,’” he answered. “Fighting’s wrong. ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek turn to him the other also.’ Haven’t tried that, have you?”
“He hasn’t done it,” explained Anthony. “He called my mother a charwoman. They’re always on to me, shouting after me ‘pauper’ and ‘charity boy.’”
“Damn shame,” murmured Mr. Dobb forgetfully.
“There’s something inside me,” explained Anthony, “that makes me want to kill them and never mind what happens to me afterwards. It’s that that I’m afraid of. If I could just give one or two of them a good licking it would stop it.”
Mr. Dobb scratched his head. “Wish you’d come to me a year ago, my lad,” he said, “before your aunt got me to promise to read a chapter of the Bible every night before I went to sleep.” He looked down at Anthony with an approving professional eye. “You’ve got the shoulders, and your neck might have been made for it. Your reach couldn’t be better for your height. And all you need is another inch round your wind. In a couple of months I could have turned you out equal to anything up to six stun seven.”
“But the Bible tells us to fight,” argued Anthony. “Yes, it does,” he persisted in reply to Mr. Dobb’s stare of incredulity. “It was God who told Saul to slay all the Amalekites. It was God who taught David to fight, David says so himself. He helped him to fight Goliath.”
Mrs. Newt, having regard to Mr. Dobb’s age, had advised him to read the New Testament first. He had just completed the Acts.
“Are you quite sure?” demanded Mr. Dobb.
Anthony found chapter and verse and read them to him.