“Th-thanks—­you keep out of it—­I’ll manage him."’

The second beating was more drastic.  The third was ineffectual.  The spotty youth, besides being exhausted, was demoralized with sheer bewilderment.  He was not clever, and when events ran out of their ruts he lost his head.  He had made the same discovery that the Terrace boys had made long since, namely that short of killing Robert Stonehouse there was no way of beating him, and he drew back, panting, dishevelled, his manly collar limp and his eyes wild.

“There—­that’ll teach you——­”

Robert laughed.  He put his tongue out.  He knew it was vulgar but it was the only retaliation he had breath for.  His clothes were dusty and torn, his nose bloody.  He was a frightful object.  But he knew that he had won.

The spotty youth wiped his hands on his handkerchief with exaggerated disgust.

“Dirty little beast.  I wouldn’t touch him again—­not with the end of a barge pole.”

He never did.  Nobody did.  Though he did not know it, it was Robert’s last fight.  But he had won immunity at a high cost.  The small fry skirted him as they went out through the school gates.  It was more than fear.  They distrusted him.  He was not one of them.  He did not keep their laws.  His wickedness was not their wickedness, his courage not their courage.  He ought not to have fought a boy in the sixth form.  He ought to have taken his beating quietly.  Even if he had “blubbed” they might afterwards have taken him to their bosoms in understanding and inarticulate sympathy.  As it was, he was a devil—­a foreign devil, outside the caste for ever.

Only the small red-haired boy, waiting cautiously till everyone else was out of sight, came after him as he trailed forlornly down the street.  He was still chewing meditatively at the core of his apple, and his eyes, vividly blue amidst the freckles, considered Robert out of their corners with solemn astonishment.

“I say, Stonehouse, you can fight.”

Robert nodded.  He was still breathless.

“I—­I’m used to it.”

“I’m glad you kicked that beast Saunders.  You hurt him, too.  I saw him make a face.  I wish I could fight like that.  But I’m no good at it.  I’m not ’fraid—­not really—­but I just hate it.  You like it, don’t you?”

Robert swaggered a little.

“Rather.”

There was a moment’s silence,

“I say—­if you like it—­would you mind licking Dickson Minor for me?  He’s always ragging me—­you see, I’ve a rotten time—­because of my hair, and about playing the piano.  Dickson’s the worst.  I’d be awfully glad, if you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

Robert surreptitiously wiped the blood from his nose on to his sleeve.  As usual he had no handkerchief.  A warm, delicious solace flowed over his battered spirit.  His heart swelled till it hurt him.  It opened wide to the little red-haired boy.  If only Francey could see him now—­the defender of the oppressed.  But he did not dare to think of that.  After all, he might cry.