The rest of the tribe stood round them in a ring, giving advice and encouragement. Their contempt for William vanished. For William was a good fighter. He lost his collar and acquired a black eye; and his hair, in the exhilaration of the contest, recovered from its recent severe brushing and returned to its favourite vertical angle.
The two were fairly well matched, and the fight was a most satisfactory one till the cry of “Cops” brought it to an abrupt end, and the crowd of boys, with William now in the middle, fled precipitately down another street. When they were at a safe distance from the blue helmet, they stopped, and the large boy handed William his cap.
“’Ere you are,” he said, with a certain respect.
William, with a careless gesture, tossed the cap into the air. “Don’t want it,” he said.
“Wot’s yer nime?”
“William.”
“’E’s called Bill,” said the boy to the others.
William read in their faces a growing interest, not quite friendship yet, but still not quite contempt. He glowed with pride. He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and there met—a sixpence—joy!
“Wot’s your name?” he said to his late adversary.
“’Erb,” said the other, still staring at William with interest.