THE FIGHT
Betty was in the belt of bush that lay between the wicket-gate of her
home and the road. Her idea was to be sufficiently near to home to
gather from the sound of the voices that might call her if she were
_really_ needed and yet to be so far from sight that the continual
"Betty, come here," and "Betty, go there," could not be.
She had come home as soon as school was out, come home leaving Cyril and
Nancy behind her, flung herself beneath the shade of one of her
favourite old gum trees, and begun to write.
When Mr. Bruce was busy over a story, or an article, or a book, every
one in the house knew. Then the study door would be closed and the
window only opened at the top; then the children would be banished from
the side garden into which the study looked, and from the passage
outside the study door; then Mrs. Bruce would carry his meals to him
upon a tray, and he would have strong black coffee in the early evening.
And then at last a neatly folded missive, gummed and tied with thin
string, with a mysterious "_MS. only_" inscribed in one corner, would be
carried to the post by either Cyril or Betty.
When Dot wrote a story, as she very frequently did now-a-days, portions
of it would be carried into the study for her father to see, and her
mother would proudly read page after page of the neat round hand, and
wonder where on earth the child got her ideas from.
But when Betty wrote her stories, no one in the house--excepting Cyril,
of course--knew anything about it! no one kept the house quiet for
Betty, and no one wondered wherever she got her ideas from. And yet she
had quite a collection of fairy stories and poems of her own
composition. She and an exercise book, or a few scraps of paper and a
stumpy bit of pencil were to be seen sometimes in very close
companionship.
But for all that no one did see; or seeing, they did not understand.
Still Betty wrote her stories--not necessarily for publication like her
father--nor as a guarantee that the scribbling genius was within her,
like Dot--but for the love of story writing alone.
Her fairy story to-day had to do with the bold and handsome Waratah
which ran mad in the bush behind her home, towards Middle Harbour. Her
fertile fancy had suggested many roles for these flowers to take.
It occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poem
which should stir Cyril--not one of _her_ sort of poems, about streams
and flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one that
would make Cyril say "By _Jup-i-ter_, Betty," and learn it off by heart
without any asking.
For a space she laid down her story, which began, "Once upon a time,"
and asked herself what there was that she could make a poem of for
Cyril.
"It must be something brave," she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, a
man--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a soldier--I think a soldier would
suit Cyril!"
She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding her
pencil ready to write. As she looked she became aware of a small figure
running along the road, and entering the bush track. It was Cyril, and
Cyril in woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the first
thing she did was to throw down her paper and pencil and run to meet
him.
As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face and
she heard, ever and anon as he ran, a great sob, half of anger and half
of fear, come bursting from his lips.
"Oh, my poor boy, whatever _is_ the matter?" she cried in her most
motherly way.
"The g-g-great big bully!" sobbed Cyril.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Betty in distress.
"Oh the b-b-big bully. Let's get home."
"Big John Brown?" asked Betty, for only yesterday this same John Brown
had sent her small brother home weeping over a sore head.
"Yes, of course. He--he said he'd knock me into next year. Come on,
can't you?"
Betty was running by his side at quite a brisk trot to keep up with him.
"I--I hope you knocked him down," she said.
"He said grandfather isn't our grandfather at all."
"Oh!--and you _did_ give him a black eye Cywil dear?" asked Betty
eagerly. Her "r's" had a way of rolling themselves into "w's" whenever
she was excited.
They were at the wicket-gate now, and Cyril slackened his speed, and
looked over his shoulder. No one was in sight.
"Oh, I will do!" he said boldly. "I told him no Bruce was afraid!"
"That's right," said Betty eagerly. "That's right Cywil. No Bruce is
afraid. But you did knock him down, didn't you."
Cyril hesitated--then his trouble broke from him in a burst. "We fight
to-night down at our coral islands at seven," he said.
"Oh my bwave Cywil!" exclaimed Betty admiringly. "Oh, I am so glad--oh,
I am so very glad!"
But Cyril looked doleful, and was lagging behind his small eager
sister.
"I'm not so sure that he meant us to fight," he said. "He--he never
asked me to."
"What did he say?"
"He only said something about a challenge and things."
"Oh," said Betty, eager again in a minute; "_if_ he said 'challenge' you
_must_ fight. There's no get out."
"But I've hurt my leg."
"Oh never mind your leg--think of the honour of the Bruces!" said the
fervent Betty, who regarded the family cognomen as something sacred and
against which no breath of evil must be allowed to come.
"Honour of the Bruces be hanged, if I'm lame," said Cyril savagely.
A sense of foreboding swept over Betty as she followed Cyril into the
house. Her imagination showed her willows and the "coral islands," and
only John Brown--big square John Brown--there. She knew the story that
would soon be all over the school--all over the neighbourhood--that
Cyril had been _afraid_ to fight. Of course she, Betty, his own twin
sister, knew there would not be a grain of truth in it. She knew he was
shy and delicate, and had hurt his leg. But for all that, she wished
eagerly that he were not shy and delicate, and did not always have some
bodily ill when fighting time came. And more than one sob shook her, for
she beheld the honour of the Bruces being trampled under John Brown's
big boots.
She set the table and went about her usual household tasks in a very
half-hearted way. Cyril would not look at her, and crept off to bed at
six o'clock, complaining of the pain in his leg. Tea was over by then,
and Betty, with her woeful look still on her face was helping "wash up"
in the kitchen.
Cyril in his bedroom turned down his stocking and examined the little
blue bruise near his knee. That there was some outward and visible sign
of his hurt he was very thankful. It raised his self-respect and brought
tears of self-pity to his eyes, that Betty should have expected him to
fight under such circumstances! So much did the sight of his wound
upset him that he only went on one leg while undressing, though it must
be confessed it was not always the same leg that did the hopping.
Presently, after he had been lying in bed for some little time and
commiserating with himself over his sad fate, the door opened and Betty,
with the wistfulness quite gone from her face, came in. And _such_ a
Betty! Her brown hair was bundled away under one of Cyril's battered
straw hats, and thankful indeed had she been that she had so little hair
to bundle. She wore one of Cyril's sailor jackets, and a pair of his
serge knickers, and few looking at her casually, would have insulted her
with the supposition that she was a mere girl.
Her face was alight with eagerness as she besought her brother to "just
_see_ if he'd know her!"
"It'll be almost dark when I get there," she said, "and he'll never
_dweam_ I'm not you."
"But what'll you do when you get there?" asked Cyril, sitting up in bed;
"perhaps a challenge _does_ mean a fight!"
"Fight him!" said Betty stoutly; "I've been wanting to ever since he
went above me."
"You can't fight," said Cyril disgustedly. "You're only a girl."
Betty's face positively flamed with eagerness.
"Can't fight!" she said. "Why Fred Jones taught me. He says I've got the
knack, but not _very_ much strength. Anyway, I fought that Barry kid the
other day, _I_ can promise you!"
"But John Brown is three times as big as Ces Barry."
"I know!" she sighed dismally. "Anyway, it's better to be beaten than
not to fight at all. And if you don't fight, they--they _might_ say you
were afraid." Her face grew scarlet as she put the horrid thought into
words.
When the door was shut, Cyril jumped out of bed to watch her go, and so
occupied was he over _her_ danger, that he forget his own hurt and did
not limp at all.
Up and down the garden paths his mother and father were walking, his
mother's arm through his father's, and a happy peaceful look on her
face. The thought ran through the boy's mind, how little grown up ones
know of the troubles of childhood. Nancy was rolling with baby on the
little lawn, singing--
"John, John, John, the grey goose is gone,
The fox is away o'er the hill, Oh!"
and he thought how good it was to be a girl--a goose--a fox--anything
but a boy!
Then he crept back to bed, covered up his head and began to cry. For he
was afraid that Betty would be hurt--and once again had he hung back
when he should have gone forward. And his heart told him that again he
had been a coward.
Down by the willows John Brown was waiting. He had very much enjoyed
issuing his "challenge" but he felt morally certain that it would not be
accepted. He was therefore surprised when he saw his small adversary
approaching him in the dusk.
Who shall say what fancies were running riot in his head! He was a
squire going to punish a rash youth for trying to thrust himself into
their family. He, his grandfather's grandson, was going to thrash a
foolish boy for taking his grandfather's name in vain!
Meanwhile his little foe came on, over the rough sun-burnt grass, over a
fallen tree through a small stretch of denser scrub, to the very shores
of the "coral island sea." And the baby-moon chose the moment of their
meeting to slip behind a cloud and leave the world in semi-darkness.
"Well done, Bruce!" said Brown coming forward and speaking in a hearty
tone; "I didn't believe you'd come--I didn't think you had a fight in
you."
"We Bruces fight till we die!" piped Betty, and bit her lip to still its
quivering.
Brown laughed. He detected the nervousness in his opponent's voice, and
had fully expected it. If he had found "Bruce" over-bold, he would have
been surprised indeed. As it was, the reply in some way pleased him.
"Well," he said, "you're not going to fight me. _I'm_ not in a fighting
mood; I'm going to _thrash_ you."
Betty caught her breath. It certainly entered into her mind to cry out
and run away, but she did nothing of the sort, she only clenched her
hands, and stood her ground--having as usual a sufficiency of courage
for the occasion.
The next minute Brown's great hand had grasped her coat collar, and she
felt herself swung round, stood down and swung round again. Then a sharp
swish lashed her once, twice, thrice.
Whereupon Betty began to fight on her own account, forgetting all the
advice Fred Jones had given her about "hitting out from the shoulder,"
etc. etc. She kicked Brown's legs with all the strength she could put
into her own. She pinched his wrists and his cheek, and lastly and to
his disgust she set her sharp little teeth into his hand.
He dropped her quickly, her hat rolled off, and down tumbled her short
curly hair. And the moon chose that moment to sail from under the cloud
and put Betty's face in a soft silver light.
Brown whistled. "By Jove!" he said, the "sister."
Betty crammed her hat down upon her head again.
"I'm not," she said. "It's not! It's me, Cyril. Come on, _coward_,
_bully_!"
She made a little rush at him, but Brown threw down his switch.
"Thanks," he said. "I'm not taking any this trip."
"Come on," urged Betty.
"I don't fight girls, thanks."
Betty began to cry in a heart-broken desperate way.
"It's not me," she said. "It's Cyril. It's Cyril. Oh, it's Cyril!"
But Brown, smiling darkly, turned from her, jumped over the fence, and
took his way through the banana grove to his home.
And what pen could tell of his heaviness of heart, and great shame in
that he had _thrashed_ a girl. He could feel her light weight yet as he
swung her round, hear her girlish voice crying, "We Bruces fight till
we die!" see her thin white face in the moonlight as her hat fell off,
and she looked at him and said--
"Come on, coward, bully!"
How he tingled with shame. Coward, bully! Yes, he had hit a girl.
Betty started for home at a brisk run, for during her adventure the
night had advanced, and her imagination peopled the surrounding bush
with bogeys, and imps and elves.
And as she ran, sobs broke from her, solely on account of her physical
woes.
Within the wicket gate she walked slowly. How could fear of outer
darkness remain, when the dinning-room window sent such a bar of light
beyond.
She crept softly along the verandah to the window and peeped in. Her
father was lying on the old cane lounge, his eyes upon her mother who
sat at the piano, in a pretty fresh dress, flower-like as ever. For a
space, while little boy-Betty looked, she just touched the keys tenderly
as if she loved them like her flowers, then she struck a few chords, and
began to sing "Home, Sweet Home," in her sweet girlish voice.
And Betty turned away, the tears running down her cheeks, and her small
heart aching.
"I've been bad again," she said, "and I meant to be good always. I don't
believe you _can_ be good till you are grown up." She ran along the
passage into the little bedroom which she and Dot and Nancy shared, and
she fell down by Dot's quiet white bed and buried her face in the quilt.
"Bad again," she sobbed. "I've been bad again. Oh, I'm _glad_ I got
thrashed, it ought to do me good." But it is to be feared her gladness
was not very deep, because a sense of great satisfaction swept over her
as she remembered, she had kicked, really kicked, big John Brown.