As he spoke the little wretches let fly a shower of small missiles, and a stone struck the boy smartly on the neck. He leapt about at once, and came rushing back with clenched fists and a blazing face. The mob dispersed before his onset; but he cut off one panic-stricken unit of it, and smote the lubberly coward with a thorny crash into the hedge. His eyes looked red, his breast was heaving stormily; he would have done some evil, I think, had not Mr. Sant run and put himself between. Then he backed away, without a word; but his cheeks were quite white now, and the wings of his nostrils going like a little winded horse’s. Consternation held the scattered enemy. They stood each where he had been halted by the unexpected vision of their rector and me. The assaulted one, sitting on spikes, stuffed his face into his elbow and boo-hoo’d from stentorian lungs. Mr. Sant smiled with rather an ugly look. “Blubber away, Derrick,” he said. “You’ve been well served for a dirty act.” Then he scowled abroad. “Are you English boys, to kick a downed one! Not one of you, cowards, but if he passed this Harrier alone would hug his fists in his pockets! It is no shame of his, but yours. To bait him ten to one--O! what fine courageous fellows! But I’ll have no more of it; d’ye hear? I’ll have no more of it!” He stamped, in a little access of passion, and again turned sharply on the fallen. “Get up!” he said. His tone was so peremptory that the boy rose, snuffling and wiping his eyes with his cuff. “It was you threw the stone,” said Mr. Sant. “I saw you. Very well, then, it’s got to be one of two things: fight, or put your tail between your legs and run. Quick now! Which is it to be?” Derrick did not move, but raised his wail to a pitch so artificially dismal that I had to laugh. “Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Sant, still very grim for his part, and snapped himself round. “He means fight, Harrier.” If he did, the battle he contemplated was a Battle of the Spurs. Clapping his hand to the thorns in him, and too frightened now to remember to cry, he took to his heels and, turning a corner, was out of sight in a moment. His answer to the resolution claimed for him was so ludicrous that even his little abettors were set off chuckling. I was looking across at Harry, and saw his face, too, relax and lighten. Drawn by its expression, I walked up to him, with my hand held out. “Why won’t you, Harry?” I said. He stared at me, but made no response. “We knew you could look after yourself,” I went on, “and--and I wasn’t going to interfere; at least--I mean--why won’t you let us stand up for one another, Harry?” I ended, with a burst and a blush. His face, too, was very red again, and I could see his lips were trembling. Pride and gratitude were fighting within him for mastery; but the former--still too hot with recent suffering to surrender--remained the more stubborn of the two. While my hand was yet held out, he turned his back on me, on us all, and walked off erect.