“Don’t excite, you silly kid.  I’m not as green as you are.  Besides—­who cares——?”

It flashed on Roy, through the blur of his bewildered rage, that perhaps the Boy-from-India was jealous.  He tried to speak.  Something clutched at his throat; but instinct told him he had a pair of hands....

To the utter amazement of Tara, and of the enemy, he silently sprang at the bigger boy; grabbed him unscientifically by the knot of his superior neck-tie and hit out, with more fury than precision, at cheeks and eyes and nose——­

For a few exciting seconds he had it all his own way.  Then the enemy—­recovered from the first shock of surprise—­spluttered wrathfully and hit out in return.  He had weight in his favour.  He tried to bend Roy backwards; and failing began to kick viciously wherever he could get at him.  It hurt rather badly and made Roy angrier than ever.  In a white heat of rage, he shook and pummelled, regardless of choking sounds and fingers clutching at his hair....

Tara, half excited and half frightened, could only grab Prince’s collar, to keep him from rushing into the fray; and when Joe started kicking, it was all she could do not to let him go.  But she knew Athol—­her dearest brother—­would say it wasn’t fair play.  So she tugged, and Prince tugged; while the boys, fiercely silent, rocked to and fro; and Christine sobbed piteously—­“He’s hurting Roy—­he’s killing Roy!”

Tara, fully occupied with Prince, could only jerk out:  “Don’t be a baby, Chris. Roy’s all right.  He loves it.”  Which Christine simply didn’t believe.  There was blood on his tussore shirt.  It mightn’t be his, but still——­

It made even Tara feel rather sick; and when a young gardener appeared on the scene she called out:  “Oh, Mudford, do stop them—­or something’ll happen.”

But Mudford—­British to the bone—­would do nothing of the kind.  He saw at once that Roy was getting the better of an opponent nearly twice his weight; and setting down his barrow he shamelessly applauded his young master.

By now, the enemy’s nose was bleeding freely and spoiling the brand-new blazer.  He gasped and spluttered:  “Drop it, you little beast!” But Roy, fired by Mudford’s applause, only hit out harder.

“’Pologise—­’pologise!  Say she isn’t!”

His forward jerk on the words took Joe unawares.  The edge of the lawn tripped him up and they rolled on the grass, Joe undermost in a close embrace——­

And at that critical moment there came strolling round the corner of the hedge a group of grown-ups—­Sir Nevil Sinclair with Mrs Bradley, Lady Roscoe, Lady Despard and Roy’s godfather, the distinguished novelist, Cuthbert Broome.

Mudford and his barrow departed; and Tara looked appealingly at her mother.

Roy—­intent on the prostrate foe—­suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and heard his father’s voice say sharply:  “Get up, Roy, and explain yourself!”