was a year and a half older than he and taller. He got him down: his small, hard knuckles were at Jaap’s throat; and he was nearly strangling him. The others pulled him off:
“That’ll do, I say! Shut up!”
They pulled Addie away from Jaap; and now Jaap, furious because he had been beaten, purple in the face, half choking, unable to control his hate, cried out:
“Because you’re not the son of your father!”
“Hold your jaw!” shouted Piet and Chris to Jaap.
But the word was spoken and Addie was like a madman:
“You hound! You hound!” he yelled.
And he tried to fling himself on Jaap again.
The two other boys held him back. And a sudden reasonableness came to soothe Addie’s passion: he must not let himself go like that, against that cur of a Jaap. When that young bounder lost his temper, he didn’t know what he shouted and raved, “Italian!” and “Not the son of your father!” Addie shrugged his shoulders:
“I’ve had enough of cycling with you chaps. I can spend my Sundays better than in tormenting cats and quarrelling and fighting.”
And he sprang on his bicycle and rode away.
“Italian!” Jaap screamed after him once more, forgetting everything, except his hatred.
Addie looked round; and he saw that Chris and
