erto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker
suspicions assailed him now.

"Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily.

"I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird
that has broken out of the egg."

This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that
Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very
pinnacle of good form.

"To't again," he cried despairingly.

He fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword
would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but Peter
fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the
danger zone. And again and again he darted in and pricked.

Hook was fighting now without hope. That passionate breast no longer
asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see Peter show bad form
before it was cold forever.

Abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.

"In two minutes," he cried, "the ship will be blown to pieces."

Now, now, he thought, true form will show.

But Peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands,
and calmly flung it overboard.

What sort of form was Hook himself showing? Misguided man though he was,
we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was
true to the traditions of his race. The other boys were flying around
him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up
at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching
in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the headmaster]
for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall. And his shoes
were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his
socks were right.

James Hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.

For we have come to his last moment.

Seeing Peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger
poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea. He
did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely
stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark
of respect from us at the end.

He had one last triumph, which I think we need not grudge him. As he
stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at Peter gliding through
the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot. It made Peter
kick instead of stab.

At last Hook had got the boon for whic