I did it as a rule without anger and found that beyond a bloody nose or a scratched face, these fights did not amount to much.
I was small for my age, and like most runts I was stronger than I looked, and gave many a driver boy a bad surprise.

I never was whipped, though I was pummeled severely at times.

When the fight grew warm enough I began to see red, and to cry like a baby, boring in and clinching in a mad sort of way; and these young roughs knew that a boy who fought and cried at the same time had to be killed before he would say enough.

So I never said enough; and in my second year I found I had quite a reputation as a fighter--but I never got any joy out of it.
If I could have forgotten my wish to see my mother it would have been in many ways a pleasant life to me.

I was never tired of the new and strange things I saw--new regions, new countries.