CHAPTER XI

THE FIGHT

Meanwhile, the children were travelling towards Barsdon. They were in high spirits, for the long rest had refreshed them, while the invigorating air exhilarated them. There was no shade whatever now from the heat of the sun, but what did that matter when the hill air swept through you? It set your feet dancing along the road, and the miles would have been left swiftly behind had not Modestine willed otherwise.

"Can't you feel it dancing through you, Modestine?" Nancy expostulated. "Anybody'd think you were an old lady of about a hundred to see you plodding along."

To this and other entreaties Modestine turned a deaf ear. Why hurry over the hills, she seemed to say--it was the hills you wanted to come to, well, here they are. And wasn't it views you wanted? Well, where can you hope to find anything more beautiful than the country that is sweeping in hill and dale around you? Adventure you ask for? Well, let adventure come over the hills to meet you; why go forth to seek it? Oh, Modestine, you who have youth in your veins, do you not know that youth cannot stand still? It is old age, Modestine, that sits with folded hands awaiting that which may happen.

On and on over the hills, each child taking a turn with the troublesome little animal while the others raced on ahead. Then, in the late afternoon they came to the road that led down into the valley.

Nancy offered to ride Modestine down the hill, and the others decided to have a race. Montague was for giving Mavis a start, but Billy advised him not to.

"She'd leave you a mile behind, nobody can run as fast as Mavis. 'Sides, it's too far to have a proper race; let's run just as we want to, and never mind about winning."

Montague agreed to this, for the thought of being beaten by a little girl was not pleasant, especially when you wanted to shine yourself in the eyes of that small person.

"We'll wait for you at the bottom, Nancy," Mavis shouted, "'nless Modestine changes her mind and decides to run, too!"

"All right," Nancy replied, waving her hand as, with a shout, they set off down the hill.

Modestine's gentle amble fitted in with her mood. She was in no hurry to leave the hill top, and now that she was alone the imagination part of her gently pushed aside the everyday, practical side of her nature and led her across this lovely hill country. And presently she began to feel no longer a stranger in a strange land; seeing the hills with her imagination eyes she began to feel near to them. Would she some day understand them as she did her own dear forest and river? The shouts and laughter of the other children coming distantly seemed to be a part of the joyousness of the hills. The hills, she told herself fancifully, were laughter. The winds that blew across them voiced that laughter, and she and the others were just little wild creatures of the earth who echoed the laughter brimming all around them.

She no longer questioned the hills as she jogged happily down the road. She wanted to laugh, but to laugh alone would be too stupid she thought, so instead, a song that Aunt Letty had taught her bubbled from her lips:

"I will arise and go now and go to Inisfree, And a small cabin build there of clay and wattles made Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee And live alone in the bee-loud glade."

"I'd love the bee-loud glade," she thought, "but I don't _think_ I'd live alone--I couldn't just talk to bees _all_ day."

She continued humming the song.

"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer and noon a purple glow. And evening full of the linnets' wings."

"I've seen a _blue_ glow," Nancy thought, "but not a purple one. And it was swallows' wings the evening was full of, last night, not linnets'. 'Spect the man who wrote that would have made a song last night if he'd been with us in the Priory garden. I think I'll try to make one myself about--about the swallows and children picking up the joy-drops splashed about by a Prior. I'd like to stop and write it now--'spect I'd better not. They would think I was lost, so

"I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand in the roadway, or on the pavements grey I hear it in the deep heart's core."

Nancy suddenly pulled up Modestine sharply. In spite of her delight in the hills, all day she had felt that there was something missing. Now, as she sang of one whose heart ached for the sound of water while he trod the dull pavements of London, she suddenly knew what was lacking in this hill country.

"Oh," she thought passionately, "it's the sound of the dear old Gleam I miss. _I_ can hear it in my heart's core, I can hear the tide coming in, I can hear the wind playing with the waves."

How she loved water, how even the memory of the sound of it stirred her. With a laugh at herself she shook the reins and Modestine jogged slowly on. Nancy's thoughts wandered back to the song she had been singing. Curious how little the words had conveyed to her until to-day; singing it here in the hills had made it alive for her.

"I shall call it my Hill Song," she told herself. "I'll tell Aunt Letty about it."

Ah no, she could not do that she remembered, for since Aunt Letty had ceased to be engaged to Uncle Jim she had not sung it, for it was one that he had given her. Nancy remembered too how they used to laugh over the song together.

"Nine lovely scenty bean rows they were going to have between them," she sighed, "and we were all going to stay with them in the little clay cabin, though Uncle Jim said it might end in some of us having to sleep in the bee-loud glade, else we'd be a bit congested."

Ah yes, _that_ verse had always been "alive." Nancy sighed as she remembered the happy days when Aunt Letty had sung it.

"I wish," she thought, "people wouldn't go and be miserable and not marry when they really want to--it's so worrying. I do wish I could let Uncle Jim know Aunt Letty wants him--I _know_ he'd come like a shot."

A bend in the road showed her that the foot of the hill was near; the children, scampering along, had almost reached it. Crossing the valley was a little ford, and near the water Nancy could see a couple of big lads crouching one on either side of the road. She strained forward, puzzled as to what they could possibly be doing. Instinctively she felt that they were up to no good. A moment later she knew.

Mavis, who, of course, was the first to reach the ford, disregarding the stepping-stones, was about to leap over it when the lads pulled a rope they had stretched across the road. Nancy saw the child trip and fall full length across the ford. Fortunately the water was shallow, but Nancy in her anger and indignation, and fearing that her little sister might be hurt, cried out so fiercely that Modestine literally bounded down the hill.

Mavis, with her handkerchief held to her pretty shapely little nose, ran towards her with tears in her eyes.

"It's my nose that's bleeding, an' my dress is all filthy and muddy--nasty, horrid boys!"

"Beastly skunking cads!" Nancy's words expressed what she was feeling as she slipped from Modestine to comfort the child. "But see, Billy's settling them, and Monty's helping!"

Billy, indeed, was "settling them."

"You rotten dirty hounds!" he cried. "Come on!"

"Ought we to--to let them fight? They're ever so much bigger than Billy and Monty," Mavis sobbed.

"We can't stop Billy, you know we can't, once he begins. And he does know about proper fighting, and I daresay they don't."

Billy, usually so sunny tempered, so good-natured, was a difficult person to deal with once his slow temper was roused, and that it was thoroughly roused to-day was evident. Both he and Montague had witnessed the cowardly trick played on Mavis, though they were too far off to save her.

"We'll take one each," he had cried, as together they dashed forward. "I'll take that biggest lout----"

"No, me--I'll take the biggest." Montague was just one fierce desire to hurt terribly those who had hurt his little friend.

"No--me!" Billy panted. "I can fight."

"So can I," Montague persisted.

Billy, however, was quickest, and made for the taller lad, who stood waiting with a smile of derision on his face, for the small boy dashing on to him with a challenge bursting angrily from his lips.

Nancy and Mavis clung together watching the fight. Each boy had thrown off his coat and was fighting desperately. Montague slogged into and pummelled his opponent, but, though all his passionate young heart was in the fight, it was clearly not a fair one. Billy, on the other hand, to his adversary's evident surprise and chagrin, was by no means getting the worst of it, for, thanks to his father, who had taught him both boxing and Ju Jitsu, he had science to help him, whereas the country lad had nothing but brute strength. Every movement of Billy's lithe young body was prejudged, every thrust was true. Presently, watching his opportunity, with a sudden swift movement of arm and leg, he brought his opponent heavily to the ground. The lad lay on the ground howling with rage and pain, but as he made no effort to renew the contest Billy left him and ran to Montague's assistance.

"Go away!" Montague panted. "_I'll_ manage him!"

Billy hesitated. Clearly Montague could _not_ manage the lad, yet, understanding his spirit, he was loth to interfere. The lad, however, decided the matter. Through the tail of his eye he had watched Billy's performance, and was in no mind to suffer the treatment the youngster had meted out to his confederate, so with a last cuff at Montague's head he slunk away.

The four coats lay jumbled together at the side of the ford. The lad lurched towards them, picked up his own and was about to turn away when something lying on the ground near Billy's attracted his attention. He glanced round furtively. Nobody was watching him so, stooping hurriedly, he picked up what he had seen, and, thrusting it into his pocket, called his companion and bolted. Something in his voice aroused the latter, and, pausing only for his coat, he, too, slunk away and the children were once more alone.

The next quarter of an hour was a busy time for Nancy, what with Mavis' bleeding nose and two gory and dishevelled boys to be attended to.

"It's my fwock I mind more'n my nose," Mavis said pathetically, while Nancy was bathing the latter with the clear water from the ford. "It's a horrid, muddy patch, and I'll be the only dirty one now." For Mrs. White had seen to it that Montague started out that morning with spotless clothes.

It would probably brush off, Nancy assured her, when it was dry, and, having done the best she could for Mavis, she turned her attention to the boys.

Poor Montague was a sorry spectacle, and Billy was little better. Nancy washed away the blood and cleansed the broken skin, but for the bruises she could do nothing.

Billy, who had regained his happy spirits, began to laugh at himself and Montague.

"We don't look handsome, either of us, but we'll just have to pull our hats down over our eyes and glare at anybody who stares at us!"

Montague, however, was unaccountably silent, and it was not until they had started off again and Barsdon was in sight that he voiced his trouble.

"Billy beat the fellow he was fighting an' _I_ didn't," he rumbled in a voice so low that they could scarcely hear it. "But," he added, and here apparently lay the sting, "he needn't have offered to help me." Oh, it was like gall to have your pride so wounded when you felt just one fierce, primitive impulse to hurt the cad who had injured Mavis.

"Oh, but, Monty, you were awfully brave!" Mavis cried impulsively. "Billy, you see, has been taught how to fight--but look how you slogged into that creature! I 'spect he had some bruises."

"Was he _bleeding_?" Montague asked hopefully.

"Yes, he was," Mavis replied with a little shudder.

"Bleeding as much as me?"

"Well--nearly," Mavis temporized.

Montague's face cleared. Mavis had said that he was brave, and if she thought well of him nothing else mattered. Nevertheless he found himself longing for the day when he could fight as Billy had done, and when Billy offered either to teach him boxing himself "when they got home" (how persistently that little phrase seemed to crop up!), or to ask his father to do so, Montague's momentary bitterness vanished, and he began to take an interest in life again.

And now the village was reached, and the children began to look about for the inn. They saw the sign swinging slightly in the breeze a short way down the street, but at the entrance to the village was something more attractive in children's eyes than an inn, and that was a sweet shop.

Suddenly, Billy, who was feeling parched and thirsty after the fight, felt an overwhelming desire for acid drops.

"I haven't bought my weekly sweets yet," he said. "I should think we could spare twopence, couldn't we?"

The others agreeing that twopence would not be an impossible extravagance, Billy entered the tiny shop and Nancy accompanied him.

"I've got threepence loose in my pocket," he whispered, "but hadn't I better change half a crown? I may want the coppers to tip the ostler at the inn."

Nancy nodded and Billy dived into his coat pocket for his purse, but no purse was to be found. The poor boy's face went white.

"Nancy, I can't find the purse," he whispered hurriedly. "I put it in this pocket, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. Let me feel," Nancy replied anxiously. She slipped her hand into his pocket, but could find no purse; she felt in all his other pockets, but in none of them was a purse to be found.

So far the woman who was serving them had not noticed their consternation, for she had been busy digging out the acid drops, but now as she handed the sweets to Billy she was struck by the two white, agitated little faces. Was anything the matter, she enquired kindly? Were they ill?

"No, thank you," Billy replied in confusion. "It's--it's nothing very much."

His fingers trembled as they extricated two pennies from the usual medley a boy's trousers pocket contains, but he was too proud to share his trouble with a total stranger. Fearing further questions he flung the money down and hurried out of the shop.

"Let's get into a side road quick," he said, "so I can take my coat off and shake it."

Mavis and Montague looked at him in surprise, and Nancy explained matters as they hurried after Billy. Suddenly Mavis paused and called to Billy. "Oh, Billy," she said, her voice trembling with indignation, "I know who's got it--it's that wicked boy, the one who fought Monty. I saw him pick up something, and I 'member he looked kind of scared--oh, I know it's him!"

The children looked at each other. No use to hurry now in order to turn the coat inside out, it was all too evident that Mavis was right, and that a search would be fruitless.

"I've just one penny left," Billy replied simply. "_Now_ what is to be done?"

"I've got some money!" Montague dived into his pocket and produced fivepence-halfpenny.

"An' I've twopence in my pocket!" said Nancy.

"An' I've twopence, too, in mine!" Mavis added.

Tenpence-halfpenny all told! What a sum for four little people to face the world with. Well, no use taking Modestine to the inn now; impossible, too, to present yourselves as prospective boarders at Mrs. Charsfield's pretty cottage (they knew it at once from Dick's description) with only tenpence-halfpenny in your pockets.

They turned reluctantly up a narrow lane and even Billy's heart was heavy within him. Here they were, four children and a donkey in unknown country, almost penniless. The thought of sleeping out of doors, of course did not trouble them; but for Dick's suggestion they would probably have slept out to-night in any case. But to sleep out of doors from choice was one thing, to sleep out because you had only the price of one very meagre meal between you was something quite different.

And then what a tremendous sum of money to have lost! Practically seventeen shillings, for, thanks to well-filled baskets, their expenses during the two days had been very small. And seventeen shillings was a small fortune in the eyes of these children, whose weekly pocket-money was limited because their parents held the belief that the modern habit of giving the child an unlimited allowance robbed it of a certain happiness that is known only to those children who have to think twice before they indulge themselves. A blasé child who was unable to enjoy the simple pleasures they had taught their children to enjoy was the pet abomination of Mr. and Mrs. Stafford, and the children's little hoard of nineteen shillings had been the result of much combined savings of presents from relatives, saved, not originally for this adventure, but "Just in _case_ we should want to do anything nice with it."

And now it had gone, every penny of it, and if they were to continue their travels they would have to contrive some means of raising money. To be sure there was Mr. Frampton, and to whom should you turn if not to the Warden of the Travellers in the Hills? If they hung about the village they would be sure to meet him presently; he would be glad to see them they knew, but, well, if they confided in him would he not either advise them to return home or else offer to pay their expenses himself?

"I don't see how we _can_ tell him," Billy said. "It'd look like cadging."

"But he said he had to help travellers. Wouldn't he be hurt if we didn't let him help us in some way--not to _give_ us money, of course, but just, but just----"

"There'd be _no_ way he could help us out of this 'cept with money or paying for us everywhere, which would be the same thing," Billy persisted. "And I'm sure he's not meant to help in that way if he is Warden--it's lifts and accidents and things of that kind he's here for. We've got to find a way out ourselves or go back home."

And so the matter was left while they looked about for a camping place. Presently, a wood at the end of a narrow cart-track on the right seemed to suggest itself, and here they decided to spend the night. Their spirits began to rise a little as they entered the wood. After all, there was an excitement about camping out of doors, and they would build a fire and have tea. Tea? How stupid, why had nobody thought of buying a loaf in Barsdon? They could at least run to that. Billy volunteered to go back and buy one while the others were unpacking. Bread and acid drops for tea, and the scraps left over from lunch! They laughed at the novelty of the fare. They began to think after all, their plight was not so utterly desperate while even a few pence stood between them and--well, not perhaps starvation, but giving up that which they had set their hearts upon.

"We'll find a way out," Billy called back to them, "so don't any of you worry!" He paused as he reached the road. "Guess we'll have to call it part of our adventure; it's the kind of thing that adventurers have to put up with, isn't it?" and with a laugh he set off down the hill.