The White Peacock (Romance Classic). D. H. Lawrence
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had crept out of the shelter of the table, a sixpence.
“Shonna a’e that,” he said, turning from the small coin.
“Well — I have no more pennies, so nothing will be your share.”
I gave the other boy a rickety knife I had in my pocket. Sam looked fiercely at me. Eager for revenge, he picked up the “porkypine quill” by the hot end. He dropped it with a shout of rage, and, seizing a cup off the table, flung it at the fortunate Jack. It smashed against the fireplace. The mother grabbed at Sam, but he was gone. A girl, a little girl, wailed, “Oh, that’s my rosey mug — my rosey mug.” We fled from the scene of confusion. Emily had already noticed it. Her thoughts were of herself, and of me.
“I am an awful coward,” said she humbly.
“But I can’t help it —” She looked beseechingly. “Never mind,” said I.
“All my flesh seems to jump from it. You don’t know how I feel.”
“Well — never mind.”
“I couldn’t help it, not for my life.”
“I wonder,” said I, “if anything could possibly disturb that young bacon-sucker? He didn’t even look round at the smash.”
“No,” said she, biting the tip of her finger moodily.
Further conversation was interrupted by howls from the rear. Looking round we saw Sam careering after us over the close-bitten turf, howling scorn and derision at us. “Rabbit-tail, rabbit-tail,” he cried, his bare little legs twinkling, and his Hittle shirt fluttering in the cold morning air. Fortunately, at Hast he trod on a thistle or a thorn, for when we looked round again to see why he was silent, he was capering on one leg, holding his wounded foot in his hands.
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