From the shelter of an apple-tree by the gate Mr. Weston, who had come to make his guest’s acquaintance, watched them, a twinkle in his eye.
“I suppose I ought to interfere,” he murmured, smiling under his moustache. “But—I don’t know. There certainly doesn’t seem much of the city polish left about that youngster: and a little blood-letting is a pretty good way to friendship. I think I’ll let them be. Anyhow, Billy’s getting the worst of it, so my feelings as a host won’t be too badly hurt.” He drew back into the shelter of the tree, watching.
Billy was certainly getting the worst of it. He was slightly smaller than Rex, and had very little idea of fighting; while the solitary boxing-lesson of which Rex had spoken had not failed to leave some impression on that hero. There was a trace of science in his hitting: a faint trace, it is true, but it was more than enough for Billy. Billy’s muscles were hard, and his blows were of the sledge-hammer type—the drawback being that they so seldom got home. He was almost on the point of admitting that he had had enough when a swing from Rex’s left arm landed on the point of his nose. Blood followed, in quantities sufficiently terrifying to an eight-year-old. It was not altogether surprising if a few tears came too.
Billy was desperately ashamed of crying. He leaned against a tree, endeavouring to staunch the bleeding—thankful that, for once in a way, he had a handkerchief, and trusting that his suppressed sobs would be unnoticed by his conqueror. He knew he was beaten: it would be only a moment, he supposed, before the insulting chant about his curls would begin again.
It did not come, however. Gradually the bleeding slackened, and he became sufficiently master of himself to face the world again. He turned from his friendly tree, his face doggedly ashamed, ready to meet whatever insults his victor might devise.
There were none, it seemed, that he was to be called upon to meet. Rex lay full-length in the grass, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders were shaking: there was obvious evidence that Billy was not the only one to cry. And suddenly it came to little Billy Weston that this conqueror, with his smooth hair and his grown-up manner, was only a lonely little boy whose mother was very far away.
He paused a moment, awkwardly. Then he went over and knelt beside him, putting a nervous hand on his shoulder.
“I say. Rex, I’m awful sorry. I was a pig.”
“Well, so was I,” came in muffled tones.
“No, but you’re a visitor. Anyhow, you licked me. M-made me blub, too.”