"But that Bent bwoy's bin at en for months; an' a year older too," said
Joan.

"Iss, the bwoy's got no more'n what 'e desarved. For that matter, they
Bents be all puffed up, though they'm so poor as rats, an' wi'out 'nough
religion to save the sawl of a new-born babe 'mongst the lot of 'em."

Tom, with his mouth full of fish and potato pie, told the story of his
victory, and the women made a big, hearty meal and listened.

"He cockled up to me, an' us beginned fightin' right away, an' in the third
round I scat en on the mouth an' knocked wan 'is teeth out. An' in the
fifth round he dropped me a whister-cuff 'pon the eye as made me blink
proper."

"Us doan't want to knaw no more 'bout it," declared his mother after dinner
was over. "You've laced en an' that's enough. You knaw what faither'll say.
You did ought to fight no battle but the Lard's. Now clap this here over
your eye for a bit, then be off with 'e."

Tom marched away to school earlier than usual that afternoon, while the
women went to the door and watched him trudge off, both mightily proud of
his performance and his battered brown face.

"He be a reg'lar lil apty-cock, [Footnote: _Apty-cock_--Brave, plucky
youngster.] sure 'nough!" said Joan.

Mrs. Tregenza answered with a nod and looked along the road after her son.
There was a softer expression in her eyes as she watched him. Besides, she