The tumult of shuffling feet and foul speech brought others of the Court to doorways and windows. Women, who knew nothing of the cause of the combat, added their voices to Poll’s in vigorous denunciation of Mike. The men--brave fellows!--looked on and grinned. One slunk away from the scene of the encounter; that was Skinner, Poll’s natural protector and supposed husband. He went into the public-house and ordered beer. The battle ended when Mike had accomplished his purpose and grasped the flower. He threw it on the pavement and ground it with his boot. Then he went away leisurely to enjoy refreshment after victory. His thirst had found an excuse. Poll’s fury lapsed into noisy tears. She entered her one room, threw a rusty flat-iron on the floor, and nagged at the children. Bim had watched this commotion from the parapet above. He sprawled on the cement-work, peeped at the tangle of heads below, and felt thoroughly frightened. Deeply did he regret that June was not there. She would have fought on the side of Poll and the violet, and given them victory. Had only her wand been left behind he could and would have intervened effectively. But nothing could be done. When he saw brutality win, he went moodily back to the fairies’ garden, and pondered on ugly things. The blues drove him into a brown study. He decided the affair should not end there. He uprooted a lingering primrose, and crept down with it. He carefully grubbed the mould in the box to freshen its jadedness, and planted the yellow flower--the fairies’ oriflamme. Back to the parapet he clambered to wait and watch. Hours passed by. Nothing happened that day to reward his patience. The people of Paradise Court are not observant. The primrose lived and shone without appreciation until the morrow, when June magically drew attention to it. Some children first caught sight of it and curiously poked at it with sticks. It was a new wonder to them. Poll saw the group about the box, and came to look. The wrath of yesterday was requickened within her. The children in their wisdom edged away from the virago, who carried the box to the sill outside her window, dumped it down; and then, in a voice of challenge, screamed out: "’Ere’s a primrose come! If anybody touches this, by Gawd, I’ll murder ’im!" Mike, having won his battle yesterday, was quite good-tempered to-day. He sauntered up to look at the flower and laughed. "I won’t touch it, Poll. You can ’ave yer measly primrose," and went off for another drink. Poll hesitated, then followed him: their feud was drowned in beer.