by Sophie May
CHAPTER VIII
THE FIGHT
Betty was in the belt of bush that lay between the wicket-gate of herhome and the road. Her idea was to be sufficiently near to home togather 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 andNancy behind her, flung herself beneath the shade of one of herfavourite old gum trees, and begun to write.
When Mr. Bruce was busy over a story, or an article, or a book, everyone in the house knew. Then the study door would be closed and thewindow only opened at the top; then the children would be banished fromthe side garden into which the study looked, and from the passageoutside the study door; then Mrs. Bruce would carry his meals to himupon 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 thinstring, with a mysterious "_MS. only_" inscribed in one corner, would becarried to the post by either Cyril or Betty.
When Dot wrote a story, as she very frequently did now-a-days, portionsof it would be carried into the study for her father to see, and hermother would proudly read page after page of the neat round hand, andwonder 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 forBetty, and no one wondered wherever she got her ideas from. And yet shehad quite a collection of fairy stories and poems of her owncomposition. She and an exercise book, or a few scraps of paper and astumpy bit of pencil were to be seen sometimes in very closecompanionship.
But for all that no one did see; or seeing, they did not understand.
Still Betty wrote her stories--not necessarily for publication like herfather--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 Waratahwhich ran mad in the bush behind her home, towards Middle Harbour. Herfertile fancy had suggested many roles for these flowers to take.
It occurred to her as she wrote that she had intended to write a poemwhich should stir Cyril--not one of _her_ sort of poems, about streamsand flowers and dells and birds, but a dashing sort of poem, one thatwould make Cyril say "By _Jup-i-ter_, Betty," and learn it off by heartwithout 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 forCyril.
"It must be something brave," she said. "A horse, a dog, a fire, aman--a St. Bernard dog saving a boy--a soldier--I think a soldier wouldsuit Cyril!"
She stared through the bush to the red road consideringly, holding herpencil ready to write. As she looked she became aware of a small figurerunning along the road, and entering the bush track. It was Cyril, andCyril in woe. She could see that at a glance, and of course the firstthing she did was to throw down her paper and pencil and run to meethim.
As she got nearer to him she saw tears were running down his face andshe heard, ever and anon as he ran, a great sob, half of anger and halfof fear, come bursting from his lips.
"Oh, my poor boy, whatever _is_ the matter?" she cried in her mostmotherly 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 Brownhad 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 Bettyeagerly. Her "r's" had a way of rolling themselves into "w's" whenevershe was excited.
They were at the wicket-gate now, and Cyril slackened his speed, andlooked 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 isafraid. But you did knock him down, didn't you."
Cyril hesitated--then his trouble broke from him in a burst. "We fightto-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 eagersister.
"I'm not so sure that he meant us to fight," he said. "He--he neverasked 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 thefervent Betty, who regarded the family cognomen as something sacred andagainst 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 thehouse. Her imagination showed her willows and the "coral islands," andonly John Brown--big square John Brown--there. She knew the story thatwould soon be all over the school--all over the neighbourhood--thatCyril had been _afraid_ to fight. Of course she, Betty, his own twinsister, knew there would not be a grain of truth in it. She knew he wasshy and delicate, and had hurt his leg. But for all that, she wishedeagerly that he were not shy and delicate, and did not always have somebodily ill when fighting time came. And more than one sob shook her, forshe beheld the honour of the Bruces being trampled under John Brown'sbig boots.
She set the table and went about her usual household tasks in a veryhalf-hearted way. Cyril would not look at her, and crept off to bed atsix 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 littleblue bruise near his knee. That there was some outward and visible signof his hurt he was very thankful. It raised his self-respect and broughttears of self-pity to his eyes, that Betty should have expected him tofight under such circumstances! So much did the sight of his woundupset him that he only went on one leg while undressing, though it mustbe confessed it was not always the same leg that did the hopping.
Presently, after he had been lying in bed for some little time andcommiserating with himself over his sad fate, the door opened and Betty,with the wistfulness quite gone from her face, came in. And _such_ aBetty! Her brown hair was bundled away under one of Cyril's batteredstraw hats, and thankful indeed had she been that she had so little hairto bundle. She wore one of Cyril's sailor jackets, and a pair of hisserge knickers, and few looking at her casually, would have insulted herwith 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 hewent 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 theknack, but not _very_ much strength. Anyway, I fought that Barry kid theother day, _I_ can promise you!"
"But John Brown is three times as big as Ces Barry."
"I know!" she sighed dismally. "Anywa
y, it's better to be beaten thannot to fight at all. And if you don't fight, they--they _might_ say youwere afraid." Her face grew scarlet as she put the horrid thought intowords.
When the door was shut, Cyril jumped out of bed to watch her go, and sooccupied was he over _her_ danger, that he forget his own hurt and didnot limp at all.
Up and down the garden paths his mother and father were walking, hismother's arm through his father's, and a happy peaceful look on herface. The thought ran through the boy's mind, how little grown up onesknow of the troubles of childhood. Nancy was rolling with baby on thelittle 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--anythingbut a boy!
Then he crept back to bed, covered up his head and began to cry. For hewas afraid that Betty would be hurt--and once again had he hung backwhen he should have gone forward. And his heart told him that again hehad been a coward.
Down by the willows John Brown was waiting. He had very much enjoyedissuing his "challenge" but he felt morally certain that it would not beaccepted. He was therefore surprised when he saw his small adversaryapproaching him in the dusk.
Who shall say what fancies were running riot in his head! He was asquire going to punish a rash youth for trying to thrust himself intotheir family. He, his grandfather's grandson, was going to thrash afoolish boy for taking his grandfather's name in vain!
Meanwhile his little foe came on, over the rough sun-burnt grass, over afallen tree through a small stretch of denser scrub, to the very shoresof the "coral island sea." And the baby-moon chose the moment of theirmeeting to slip behind a cloud and leave the world in semi-darkness.
"Well done, Bruce!" said Brown coming forward and speaking in a heartytone; "I didn't believe you'd come--I didn't think you had a fight inyou."
"We Bruces fight till we die!" piped Betty, and bit her lip to still itsquivering.
Brown laughed. He detected the nervousness in his opponent's voice, andhad fully expected it. If he had found "Bruce" over-bold, he would havebeen 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 fightingmood; I'm going to _thrash_ you."
Betty caught her breath. It certainly entered into her mind to cry outand run away, but she did nothing of the sort, she only clenched herhands, and stood her ground--having as usual a sufficiency of couragefor the occasion.
The next minute Brown's great hand had grasped her coat collar, and shefelt herself swung round, stood down and swung round again. Then a sharpswish lashed her once, twice, thrice.
Whereupon Betty began to fight on her own account, forgetting all theadvice Fred Jones had given her about "hitting out from the shoulder,"etc. etc. She kicked Brown's legs with all the strength she could putinto her own. She pinched his wrists and his cheek, and lastly and tohis disgust she set her sharp little teeth into his hand.
He dropped her quickly, her hat rolled off, and down tumbled her shortcurly hair. And the moon chose that moment to sail from under the cloudand 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, andtook his way through the banana grove to his home.
And what pen could tell of his heaviness of heart, and great shame inthat he had _thrashed_ a girl. He could feel her light weight yet as heswung her round, hear her girlish voice crying, "We Bruces fight tillwe 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 thenight had advanced, and her imagination peopled the surrounding bushwith bogeys, and imps and elves.
And as she ran, sobs broke from her, solely on account of her physicalwoes.
Within the wicket gate she walked slowly. How could fear of outerdarkness remain, when the dinning-room window sent such a bar of lightbeyond.
She crept softly along the verandah to the window and peeped in. Herfather was lying on the old cane lounge, his eyes upon her mother whosat at the piano, in a pretty fresh dress, flower-like as ever. For aspace, while little boy-Betty looked, she just touched the keys tenderlyas if she loved them like her flowers, then she struck a few chords, andbegan to sing "Home, Sweet Home," in her sweet girlish voice.
And Betty turned away, the tears running down her cheeks, and her smallheart aching.
"I've been bad again," she said, "and I meant to be good always. I don'tbelieve you _can_ be good till you are grown up." She ran along thepassage into the little bedroom which she and Dot and Nancy shared, andshe 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 gotthrashed, it ought to do me good." But it is to be feared her gladnesswas not very deep, because a sense of great satisfaction swept over heras she remembered, she had kicked, really kicked, big John Brown.
