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 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
134