It was almost noon when Peter left Mona and returned to Simon
McQuarrie's cabin. His head was in a whirl and his heart stirred
uneasily between joy and grief. Not for many minutes at a time had his
thoughts been away from his father. Even when Mona's dark eyes were
smiling at him and her sweet voice was talking to him, his father's
white and hunted face was a vision that never quite faded out of his
momentary flashes of happiness. Deep down in his heart was an emptiness
which even Mona could not fill, an aching pain which her beauty and her
gentleness softened but could not quite drive away.
And Mona tried. In her heart, which was sometimes a woman's heart in
a child's breast, she knew that Peter was grieving and fighting to
hide his grief. The tragedy in her own life, and a sorrow which had
been deeper and more pitiless than Peter's, made her understand and
feel what even Adette in her young motherhood might not have sensed so
clearly.
It seemed only yesterday to Mona that her mother had laughed and played
with her under the big, white sails of the ship, with her father
watching them, and only yesterday that the terrible thing had happened
in the sea. No one, not even Pierre Gourdon, knew how vividly those
hours and days came back to her at times. The forest and the wild
things shared her secret, but no others. Over the two graves in the
little cemetery at Five Fingers she had said quietly to Peter that
morning, "My father and mother, Peter"--and that was all.
Something in her voice held Peter from asking for the story of that
frightful hour in the maelstroms of the Pit, where Pierre Gourdon had
saved her and her father and mother had died. But he felt it. It crept
into him and became a part of him, and even Pierre Gourdon would have
found it difficult to explain what was born in their hearts in those
moments when Peter looked at the big stone into which had been roughly
cut the words, "Paul and Mona Guyon, Died Sept. 27, 1900"--and then
said gently to the girl who stood fighting bravely at his side, "I'm
sorry, Mona." For to Pierre they were children.
But there was something in Peter's soul that was struggling beyond
childhood as he returned to Simon's cabin. Three days, and this day
most of all, had shown him his first dim vision of the bridge which
spans the illusive way between boy and man. He had lost his father.
But his father was not dead, while Mona's was gone forever. Out of the
chaos in his mind these facts kept repeating themselves, and with them
came ever more insistently the desire to do something for Mona. And one
possible achievement loomed big--the whipping of Aleck Curry!
Thought of it made his blood tingle. He did not ask himself what it was
that Aleck had done to incur Mona's displeasure. It was sufficient for
him to know that she was praying for calamity to fall upon his head.
She wanted the crows to pull his hair out. She had prayed for that last
night--when she had prayed for his father. And she was sure that God
answered prayer.
But it was his own feud with Aleck that fired both his chivalry and his
hatred--memory of that moment in which the tug master's son had thrust
Mona's head back brutally in the edge of the forest, with his big,
coarse hands fastened in her hair. In his first encounter with Aleck
he had saved Mona but had failed to avenge the outrage. He was sure he
could do it now.
Simon took him among the men after dinner and he became acquainted with
them all. They went back into the cuttings, and it was three o'clock
before Peter found himself alone. Then, instead of going back to Mona,
he circled in the edge of the timber until he came to the end of the
finger of evergreens that reached almost to the inlet. His heart gave
a jump when he saw Aleck on the tug shooting at the flying gulls with
a slung-shot. Peter had made up his mind to challenge his enemy calmly
and without excitement, as his father would undoubtedly have challenged
a man in a similar situation. But his plan changed suddenly. He picked
up a stone and hurled it with such accuracy that Aleck, seeing the
missile, dodged. Then he jumped ashore.
Peter waited for him. He was not afraid, but his heart was beating
fast. Aleck seemed to have grown considerably overnight, Peter thought.
He was almost as big as Jame Clamart, and his face was red with an
exultant passion as he advanced, stuffing the slung-shot into one of
his pockets. There was no doubt this was just the opportunity Aleck
was looking for, and Peter retreated with caution into the balsams and
cedars.
Aleck began to run--and Peter ran. He was light as a rabbit on his
feet, and as he hopped over logs and underbrush he heard Aleck crashing
like a big animal behind him. Twice he allowed his enemy to come almost
within reach of him, and then spurted ahead. At last, in the edge of a
little cut-over clearing, Aleck stopped. He was puffing and blowing and
his fat face was covered with sweat.
"Runny-cat!" he choked derisively. "Runny-cat--runny-cat----"
He caught himself in amazement as Peter turned and advanced toward him.
"Always smile when you're in a tight place," Peter's father had taught
him, and Peter tried bravely to live up to the rule. A fixed grin was
on his face. "I'm going to lick you," he announced cheerfully. "You're
nothing but a girl-beater and a windbag, an' your wind's all gone. I
wasn't running _away_ from you, Fatty--I was leadin' you _on_!"
Aleck stood aghast, gulping hard to get his breath. It seemed
impossible that a boy so much smaller than himself would dare face him
with such monumental nerve. The bully in him was maddened by Peter's
next insult. "You're nothing but a girl-fighter--a hair-puller--a big
tub of fat," Peter informed him, "an' you'll be yelling for help when I
get half done with you!"
And then Peter jumped in. He was quick. His fists were small but hard.
His wind was good. And the suddenness of his attack took Aleck off his
guard. The first blow was what Peter called a stomacher, and Aleck let
out a huge grunt. He bellowed anathema as he began to swing his heavy
arms. Peter reached his nose and one eye and his mouth. He was like a
hornet. His two small fists were swiftly moving hammers, and Aleck had
never experienced anything like the hail of their blows. They took away
from him what breath he had left; his nose began to bleed, his lip was
cut, and then Peter gave him another stomacher. Could he have lasted
for five minutes at the speed he was going, Aleck would have been a
wreck.
But Peter was delivering all his metal in one smashing broadside.
Aleck floundered and puffed. One eye closed quickly. Blood smeared
his face and shirt. His big mouth began to swell. He was not fighting
muscle and brawn--but _nerves_. Every nerve in Peter's body was at its
breaking point, and he was like a thing gone mad. But he was beating
against a mass of dull and stupid flesh that had but few nerves to be
shocked into submission. His blows began to carry less force, and he
was compelled to breathe with his mouth open. He gave Aleck one last
slashing cut in the mouth and then his strength seemed to break. His
enemy's arms tightened around him and they went down together. Peter
was under, just as in that other tragic moment when Mona had saved him.
But there was no Mona to save him now, not even Buddy to nip at Aleck's
legs and heels. His one consolation was a final look at Aleck's face
close above him. He had done a pretty good job, anyway. In another
minute or two the bully would have quit.
Both rested, gaining their breath. Then Aleck began to pommel,
weighting Peter down with his entire bulk.
"I got you now," he managed to gasp. "I got you!"
Peter saved his breath. He realized the futility of struggling against
that weight with what little strength was in him and concentrated
all his effort in shielding his face. Aleck was like a porpoise, and
every half-minute or so was compelled to cease his jabbing to get a
new supply of breath, a large amount of which he wasted in verbal
laceration of Peter's feelings as he pommeled with his fists.
"I'm a tub of fat, am I?" he demanded at the beginning of each fresh
attack. "I'm a windbag, eh? A girl-beater, am I? Take that, an' that,
an' _that_! An' yell for your girl, Petey, yell for your girl to come
an' help you!"
Then he would pause again to gather lung momentum for another attack.
Each assault left Peter a little bit more helpless than before. He
could feel himself swelling. One eye, he knew was entirely shut. The
other he saved by shielding it against his arm. His thoughts were
growing a little hazy, too, but all his mental and physical discomfort
was dissipated by the threat of a new horror which came in a sudden
inspiration of triumph from Aleck's swollen lips.
"I'm goin' to yell for Mona," he said. "I'm goin' to have her come
and see what I've done to you! A tub of _fat_, am I? Take that--an'
that----"
And he did yell when he got his wind again. In reality his challenge
for Mona to come and see her Petey licked was husky and not
far-reaching, but it seemed to Peter the whole world must hear it.
"An' when she comes I'm going to make you say you're licked or I'll
beat your head off," Aleck told him. And then he sat up straight, his
heavy bulk astride Peter's slim body, and called Mona's name again.
Peter's brain went hot. Was this to be the answer to Mona's prayer? Had
Mona really prayed, or had she fooled him? Faith rode over his doubt.
Mona wouldn't lie. She had prayed, and the trouble right now was with
him--and not with Mona's prayer.
Aleck's swollen face was growing purple in its vociferous calling for
Mona. In a moment of safety Peter took a look at it with his one good
eye. A thrill shot through him when he found the weakness had left his
arms. He was breathing easily, too, in spite of Aleck's weight. If he
could only get up--if he could have just one more chance at that fat,
swollen face----
It was something quicker than Peter himself that moved him, an
intuitive flash, a lightning-swift call of his brain upon hidden forces
of self-preservation within him--a twist, a convulsion of his body, a
squirming upheaval so sudden and unexpected that Aleck lost his balance
with Mona's name half out of his mouth, and the other half never came.
He fell sprawling, and Peter was upon him again like a cat. Aleck's
face was his target, and he beat it--fast, furious and hard. He was
amazed at the return of his strength. It exhilarated and inspired him,
and in his mad enthusiasm he bit one of Aleck's ears. A roar of pain
came from the bully. Peter's fist lodged squarely in Aleck's eye, and a
second howl followed the first.
At heart the tug-master's boy was a coward, like every bully, and in
another minute he was crying for quarter. But Peter's momentum was
too great to be stopped on such short notice. He continued, until in
the end Aleck Curry was a blubbering, wind-broken, thoroughly whipped
rascal, hiding his face in the earth.
Not until then did Peter stand up, seeing the world dimly with one eye.
And then--in that glorious moment of triumph and answered prayer--his
heart stopped dead in his body for a single moment. Not ten feet away
from him stood Mona! Even with his fading vision he saw the wild flush
in her face and the joy in her eyes. The truth they betrayed turned his
darkening world suddenly into a paradise. _She had seen him whip Aleck
Curry!_
He turned to Aleck. "Get up!" he said. "Get up or I'll kick in your
ribs!"
Aleck dragged himself to his knees, then slouched to his feet. He was a
pitiable sight. His eyes were little slits. His face was swollen until
it looked as though he had the mumps. He was blubbering and gasping for
his breath, and for a moment he did not see Mona.
"Are you licked?" demanded Peter, coming close to him.
Aleck drew back and put up a shielding hand. "I guess I got enough," he
conceded.
"If you ain't sure--I mean if you _aren't_ sure--I'll finish it," said
Peter.
"I got enough."
"Then gimme the slung-shot."
Aleck surrendered the weapon. In that moment he caught a dim vision of
Mona. He gulped and swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Now promise Mona you won't bother her any more. Promise--or I'll lick
you again!"
"I promise."
"An' you won't throw stones at her gulls?"
"No."
"All right, Fatty. Now go on back to the tug. _And stay there!_"
He watched Aleck until he had disappeared among the cedars. Then, his
business done, he turned toward Mona. A little shyly, with shining
eyes, she came to him. He wiped his eye. He could just see her.
"Oh, Peter!" she whispered softly. He could feel her soft little
handkerchief at his face, just as he had felt it that first day in the
edge of the forest. And she was saying, "Peter--you're glorious!"
And then something happened that sent a tremble through the world on
which Peter stood. Raising herself on tiptoe, Mona kissed him softly
and sweetly on his swollen lips.
"There, that is what Aleck Curry has wanted all the time, and I'm
_giving_ it to you. Say thank you, Peter!"
"Thank you," said Peter.