boys, not half a dozen, and those only Upper Sixth boys--fellows who
came in top hats with umbrellas, and who wouldn't out of regard to
their own dignity--could have challenged him with any chance of
success. Yet he fought very seldom, and then always in a bored, lazy
fashion, as though he were doing it purely to oblige the other fellow.

One afternoon, just as we were about to enter Regent's Park by the
wicket opposite Hanover Gate, a biggish boy, an errand boy carrying an
empty basket, and supported by two smaller boys, barred our way.

"Can't come in here," said the boy with the basket.

"Why not?" inquired Dan.

"'Cos if you do I shall kick you," was the simple explanation.

Without a word Dan turned away, prepared to walk on to the next
opening. The boy with the basket, evidently encouraged, followed us:
"Now, I'm going to give you your coward's blow," he said, stepping in
front of us; "will you take it quietly?" It is a lonely way, the
Outer Circle, on a winter's afternoon.

"I'll tell you afterwards," said Dan, stopping short.

The boy gave him a slight slap on the cheek. It could not have hurt,
but the indignity, of course, was great. No boy of honour, according
to our code, could have accepted it without retaliating.

"Is that all?" asked Dan.