It could be felt that something awful was about to
happen, and Penrod, as he rose from the floor, suffered
an unexpected twinge of apprehension and remorse:
he hoped that Rupe wouldn’t really hurt
Herman. A sudden dislike of Rupe and Rupe’s
ways rose within him, as he looked at the big boy
overwhelming the little darky with that ferocious scowl.
Penrod, all at once, felt sorry about something indefinable;
and, with equal vagueness, he felt foolish. “Come
on, Rupe,” he suggested, feebly, “let
Herman go, and let’s us make our billies out
of the rake handle.”
The rake handle, however, was not available, if Rupe
had inclined to favour the suggestion. Verman
had discarded his lath for the rake, which he was
at this moment lifting in the air.
“You ole black nigger,” the fat-faced
boy said venomously to Herman, “I’m agoin’
to——”
But he had allowed his nose to remain too long near
Herman’s.
Penrod’s familiar nose had been as close with
only a ticklish spinal effect upon the not very remote
descendant of Congo man-eaters. The result produced
by the glare of Rupe’s unfamiliar eyes, and by
the dreadfully suggestive proximity of Rupe’s
unfamiliar nose, was altogether different. Herman’s
and Verman’s Bangala great-grandfathers never
considered people of their own jungle neighbourhood
proper material for a meal, but they looked upon strangers
especially truculent strangers—as distinctly
edible.
Penrod and Sam heard Rupe suddenly squawk and bellow;
saw him writhe and twist and fling out his arms like
flails, though without removing his face from its
juxtaposition; indeed, for a moment, the two heads
seemed even closer.
Then they separated—and battle was on!
How neat and pure is the task of the chronicler who
has the tale to tell of a “good rousing fight”
between boys or men who fight in the “good old
English way,” according to a model set for fights
in books long before Tom Brown went to Rugby.
There are seconds and rounds and rules of fair-play,
and always there is great good feeling in the end—though
sometimes, to vary the model, “the Butcher”
defeats the hero—and the chronicler who
stencils this fine old pattern on his page is certain
of applause as the stirrer of “red blood.”
There is no surer recipe.
But when Herman and Verman set to ’t the record
must be no more than a few fragments left by the expurgator.
It has been perhaps sufficiently suggested that the
altercation in Mr. Schofield’s stable opened
with mayhem in respect to the aggressor’s nose.
Expressing vocally his indignation and the extremity
of his pained surprise, Mr. Collins stepped backward,
holding his left hand over his nose, and striking at
Herman with his right. Then Verman hit him with
the rake.
Verman struck from behind. He struck as hard
as he could. And he struck with the tines down—For,
in his simple, direct African way he wished to kill
his enemy, and he wished to kill him as soon as possible.
That was his single, earnest purpose.
