remember this, if you would understand Paul's after-life. It was
built on this radiant knowledge. In the afternoon he met Billy
Goodge and the gang. They were playing at soldiers, Billy
distinguished by a cocked hat made out of newspaper and a wooden
sword.

"Coom on, Susie, wi be going to knock hell out of the boys in
Stamford Street."

Paul folded his arms and looked at him contemptuously, as became one
of his noble blood. "You could no' knock hell out of a bug."

"What's that tha says?"

Paul repeated the insult.

"Say that agen!" blustered the cocked-hatted leader.

Paul said it again and nothing happened, Billy received vociferous
and sanguinary advice couched in sanguinary terms.

"Try and hit me!" said Billy.

The scene was oddly parallel with one in the story of the outcast
boy of the gutter. Paul, conscious of experiment, calmly went up to
him and kicked him. He kicked him hard. The sensation was delicious.
Billy edged away. He knew from past experience that if it came to
blows he was no match for Paul, but hitherto, having shown fight, he
had received the support of the gang. Now, however, there was an
extraordinary quality in Paul's defiance which took the spirit out