The Loom of Destiny
a stinging pain. He put up his hand and felt his face. It was bleeding. A surge of something like drunkenness swept through his frame. He did n't mind the bleeding. Now he did n't care. He was glad it really was bleeding. That meant that they had to fight it out then and there. He did n't mind fighting, nor did he mind getting whipped. But he felt that he would rather be pounded to pieces than endure any longer this uncertainty of position. One or the other must be boss, and boss for all time.
It hardly seemed his own hand that clutched wildly for a fragment of brick on the ground and flung it with all his force at the other boy. It went wide, for it was thrown in blind passion.
But it brought the enemy, bristling and aggressive, toward him.
"Did youse t'row that at me, kid?" demanded the boy who had thrown the coal cinder. He could not have been a year older than the other.
"'Course I did!" said the new boy, almost crying, but not daring to show it.
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