Yer've no right to come down and pick what's meant for poor people.

Give 'em here."

He wrenched the basket from Tom's arm, and scattered its contents away amongst the furze-bushes, sending the basket after them.

"There, that's what you'll get if yer comes picking and stealing here.

How d'yer like that, young blunt 'un?"

"Not at all," said Tom, who looked very white, and felt a peculiar tingling about the corners of his lips and in his temples.

"Course yer don't; but yer've got to like it, and so I tell yer. Smell that."

He placed his fist within an inch of Tom's nose, and the boy could not help smelling it, for it was strong of pulling onions, or peeling them with his nails.

"Now, then, how much money have yer got with yer?"

"Only another sixpence," said Tom a little huskily.

"Hand it over, then, and look sharp about it, 'fore it's the worse for yer."

He caught hold of Tom's jacket as he spoke, and gave it a shake, making his dog sidle up and growl, "Hear that? You give me more of yer sarce, and I'll set the dorg at you, and see how yer like that. Now, then, where's that sixpence?"

"I'll give it to you if you'll leave go," said Tom quietly. "Look here, Pete, I don't want to quarrel with you."

"That yer don't. I should like to see you. Give it here."

"I want to be friends with you, and try to do something for you."

"Yes, I knows you do. You've got to bring me a shillin' every week, or else I'll give it yer, so as you'd wish yer'd never been born. I'll larn yer. Give me that sixpence."

"Leave go first."

"Give's that sixpence, d'yer hear?" cried Pete, clapping his other hand on Tom, and shaking him.

"Don't do that," cried Tom; "it makes me feel queer."

Pete yelled with laughter.

"Course it does; but that arn't nothing. Hand over that there sixpence, or--"

He gave a savage shake, which made Tom turn deadly pale, and shake himself free.

"What!" roared Pete. "Oh, yer would, would yer? Lay hold on him.

Ciss! have him there!"

The dog, which had been snuffling and growling about, needed no further urging, but sprang at Tom, who received his charge with a tremendous kick, which caught the cur under the jaw, knocking it over, and sending it in amongst the furze bushes, where it lay howling and yelping dismally, till it gave a peculiar sharp cry, sprang out with something sticking to its nose, and then dashed off with its tail between its legs as hard as it could go, leaving a little viper wriggling back over the short gra.s.s to get back to the shelter of the furze.

Pete Warboys looked perfectly astounded at Tom's act, and stood staring for a few moments. Then, attributing it to horror and desperate fear, he ran at his enemy again, and got a firm grip of his collar, to begin see-sawing him to and fro.

"That's it, is it?" he cried; "yer'd kick my dorg, would yer? Just you give me that other sixpence, or I'll break every bone in yer skin 'fore yer know where you are."

"Let go!" said Tom huskily; and he struggled to get free.

"Oh no, yer don't. Yer arn't going to get away till yer've paid me that there sixpence."

Tom's fit of philanthropy had nearly all evaporated, like so much mist before the intense heat which Pete had set burning, and made all the blood in his face and extremities seem to run to his heart, which pumped away violently, causing his head to feel giddy, and his hands and feet to tingle and jerk.

"Will you leave go?" he cried in a low, hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"No, I sharn't, yer cowardly sneak," cried Pete triumphantly, for the white face and trembling voice were delightful to him. He had his enemy metaphorically upon his knees, and it was pure delight to him to have Tom at his mercy. "Yer've bounced it over me long enough when yer'd got any one to help yer, or you was at home; but I've got yer now, and I'm going to pay yer, and teach yer, and let yer know what's what. Where's that there sixpence yer owe me?"

"Will you let go?" cried Tom, more huskily than ever, but with his eyes blazing.

"No," cried Pete, grinning, and giving his imaginary victim a tremendous shake.

The last wreath of Tom's philanthropic mist had evaporated.

_Click--Clack_!

It was the only way in which he could use his fists from the manner in which he was being held; so Tom struck sharply upwards, his blows taking effect upon Pete's lower jaw, and jerking his head sharply, making him loose his hold and stagger back, to go down in a sitting position amongst the furze.

He did not stay there a moment, but rebounded as quickly as if he had been b.u.mped down violently upon a spring bed.

There the comparison ends, for Pete uttered a yell of agony and rage, which made him rush again at the lad, grinning like a dog, and meaning to take a savage revenge. But to his astonishment Tom did not attempt to run away. He flew to meet him, when there was a sharp encounter, heavy blows were delivered on either side, and Pete went down, but this time on the gra.s.s.

He was up again directly, clinging still to the belief that his adversary was horribly afraid, and merely fighting in desperation; and once more he rushed at Tom, who was quite ready to rush at him.

And then for fully ten minutes there was a succession of desperate encounters. They were not in the slightest degree scientific; they were not what people call rounds, and there was no squaring, for everything was of the most singular description: arms flew about like windmill sails; fists came in contact with fists, arms, heads, faces, chests, and at times--in a curly or semi-circular kind of blow--with backs and shoulders. Now they were up, now they were down; then up again to close, hitting, wrestling, and going down to continue the hitting on the ground. Sometimes Tom was undermost, sometimes Pete occupied that position.

And so the fight went on desperately for the above-named ten minutes, at the end of which time they went down together with a heavy thud, after Pete had run in with his head down like a ram, receiving a couple of heavy cracks, but succeeding in gripping Tom about the waist, and trying to lift and throw him.

But the long, big, loose-jointed fellow had miscalculated his strength.

Far stronger than Tom at the commencement, his powers had soon begun to fail, while, though panting heavily, thickset, st.u.r.dy, bulldog like Tom had plenty of force left in him still, the result being that Pete's effort to lift and throw him proved a failure, ending in a dexterous wrench throwing him off his balance, and another sending him down with his adversary upon his chest.

The next minute Tom had extricated himself, Pete's clutch giving way easily; a leg was dragged out from beneath him, and Tom sat panting on the gra.s.s, ready to spring up if Pete made a movement.

But there was none of an inimical nature, for Pete was completely beaten, and lay upon his back wagging his head from side to side, and drawing up and straightening his legs slowly, as if he were a frog swimming upside down.

Then he began to howl, with the tears streaming out of his eyes; but for the time being Tom was still too hot, and there was too much of the natural desire in him to injure his adversary for him to feel any compa.s.sion.

"Do you give in?" he shouted.

"Oh--oh--oh!" yelled Pete, in a hoa.r.s.e, doleful mingling of cry and word. "Yer've killed me! yer've killed me!"

"Dead people can't talk," cried Tom tauntingly. "Serve you right if I had."

Probably this was a bit of hectoring, and not the real feeling, consequent upon the great state of exaltation to which the fight had raised him.

"Yer've killed me, yer great coward; yer've killed me!" wailed Pete again, excitement having probably acted upon his eyes after the fashion attributed to a horse's, which are said to magnify largely, and made Tom seem unusually big.