Peter did not again venture into this district alone. At least a dozen of his school friends lived in the western suburb. He formed them into a company, which daily took the forbidden way to school. Such was the origin of a feud whose deeds and passages would fill a chronicle. Peter's company was long remembered. He soon made some striking discoveries. You cannot fight with a persistent enemy, even though his methods are not your methods, without touching his good points. It soon became evident that he and the roughs were less bitterly opposed than either of them was to the police. It was also clear that the men and women of the factory were "sports." They encouraged the boys quite impartially, and saw fair play. Peter particularly remembered one morning of snow and dirt outside the big factory, when he slipped and fell, squirming with bitter pain of a snowball hard as ice in his ear. A stalwart woman with naked arms grimed with lead, picked him up and pressed him in a comfortable and friendly way against her bosom. She was in that dark hour an angel of strength and solace. The incident always lived in Peter's memory along with the faint smell in his nostrils of the factory grime. On the morning after the transit of Jupiter's third moon Peter was late. His company had not waited. Peter had to pass his enemies alone. He still wondered at the change which had come over him yesterday. Nothing that morning seemed of the least importance save a curious necessity to be still and inquire of himself what had happened. He thought only of Miranda, wondering why he saw her now at a distance. A company of roughs lay between Peter and his friends. He was cut off; but it did not seem to matter. Everything that morning was unreal. He walked quite indifferently towards them. They seemed so remote that, had they vanished into air, he would not have been surprised. Peter pushed loftily past a handsome young rough. "Now then," said the fellow. "Let me pass," said Peter, curiously pedantic beside the other. "Not so fast." "Let go of my arm," said Peter. "Not much," said the enemy. Peter flew into a rage. "Funk," he said, without point or reason. "Say it again." "Funk." "Who's a funk?" "You are." "Are you calling me a funk?" "Yes." "Say it again." "Funk." There was a deadlock. Peter must try something else. "See this face?" he inquired with deadly offensiveness, thrusting forward his countenance for exhibition. "Take it away," said the other. "Hit it," said Peter. "I shall if you don't take it away." "Just you hit it." Peter's enemy did hit it. Immediately a ring was formed. Peter fell back into his mood of indifference to the world. This fight was a nuisance, but it had to go on. They fought three vigorous rounds. From every court and alley spectators poured. Windows were flung up. Then a policeman was seen, and in ten seconds the street was empty again. Peter jogged off to the main road. The roughs scattered into holes.