The Magic World. Nesbit Edith

‘little prig.’ Then he said to Quentin: ‘I am afraid you will find yourself rather out of your element among ordinary boys.’

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Quentin calmly, adding as an afterthought ‘sir.’

      ‘I’m glad you’re so confident,’ said the classical master and went.

      ‘My word,’ said Smithson minor in a rather awed voice, ‘you did answer him back.’

      ‘Of course I did,’ said Quentin. ‘Don’t you answer when you’re spoken to?’

      Smithson minor informed the interested school that the new chap was a prig, but he had a cool cheek, and that some sport might be expected.

      After supper the boys had half an hour’s recreation. Quentin, who was tired, picked up a book which a big boy had just put down. It was the Midsummer Night’s Dream.

      ‘Hi, you kid,’ said the big boy, ‘don’t pretend you read Shakespeare for fun. That’s simple swank, you know.’

      ‘I don’t know what swank is,’ said Quentin, ‘but I like the Midsummer whoever wrote it.’

      ‘Whoever what?’

      ‘Well,’ said Quentin, ‘there’s a good deal to be said for its being Bacon who wrote the plays.’

      Of course that settled it. From that moment, he was called not de Ward, which was strange enough, but Bacon. He rather liked that. But the next day it was Pork, and the day after Pig, and that was unbearable.

      He was at the bottom of his class, for he knew no Latin as it is taught in schools, only odd words that English words come from, and some Latin words that are used in science. And I cannot pretend that his arithmetic was anything but contemptible.

      The book called Atlantis had been looked at by most of the school, and Smithson major, not nearly such an agreeable boy as his brother, hit on a new nickname.

      ‘Atlantic Pork’s a good name for a swanker,’ he said. ‘You know the rotten meat they have in Chicago.’

      This was in the playground before dinner. Quentin, who had to keep his mouth shut very tight these days, because, of course, a boy of ten cannot cry before other chaps, shut the book he was reading and looked up.

      ‘I won’t be called that,’ he said quietly.

      ‘Who said you wouldn’t?’ said Smithson major, who, after all, was only twelve. ‘I say you will.’

      ‘If you call me that I shall hit you,’ said Quentin, ‘as hard as I can.’

      A roar of laughter went up, and cries of, ‘Poor old Smithson’ – ‘Apologise, Smithie, and leave the omnibus.’

      ‘And what should I be doing while you were hitting me?’ asked Smithson contemptuously.

      ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ said Quentin.

      Smithson looked round. No master was in sight. It seemed an excellent opportunity to teach young de Ward his place.

      ‘Atlantic pig-swine,’ he said very deliberately. And Quentin sprang at him, and instantly it was a fight.

      Now Quentin had only once fought – really fought – before. Then it was the grocer’s boy and he had been beaten. But he had learned something since. And the chief conclusion he now drew from his memories of that fight was that he had not hit half hard enough, an opinion almost universal among those who have fought and not won.

      As the fist of Smithson major described a half circle and hurt his ear very much, Quentin suddenly screwed himself up and hit out with his right hand, straight, and with his whole weight behind the blow as the grocer’s boy had shown him. All his grief for his wounded father, his sorrow at the parting from his mother, all his hatred of his school, and his contempt for his schoolfellows went into that blow. It landed on the point of the chin of Smithson major who fell together like a heap of rags.

      ‘Oh,’ said Quentin, gazing with interest at his hand – it hurt a good deal but he looked at it with respect – ‘I’m afraid I’ve hurt him.’

      He had forgotten for a moment that he was in an enemies’ country, and so, apparently, had his enemies.

      ‘Well done, Piggy! Bravo, young ’un! Well hit, by Jove!’

      Friendly hands thumped him on the back. Smithson major was no popular hero.

      Quentin felt – as his schoolfellows would have put it – bucked. It is one thing to be called Pig in enmity and derision. Another to be called Piggy – an affectionate diminutive, after all – to the chorus of admiring smacks.

      ‘Get up, Smithie,’ cried the ring. ‘Want any more?’

      It appeared that Smithie did not want any more. He lay, not moving at all, and very white.

      ‘I say,’ the crowd’s temper veered, ‘you’ve killed him, I expect. I wouldn’t like to be you, Bacon.’

      Pig, you notice, for aggravation – Piggy in enthusiastic applause. In the moment of possible tragedy the more formal Bacon.

      ‘I haven’t,’ said Quentin, very white himself, ‘but if I have he began – by calling names.’

      Smithson moved and grunted. A sigh of relief swept the ring as a breeze sweeps a cornfield.

      ‘He’s all right. A fair knock out. Piggy’s got the use of ’em. Do Smithie good.’ The voices hushed suddenly. A master was on the scene – the classical master.