Part 10 (1/2)

”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.