But, for some reason which his immature mind could not fathom, he felt a pariah even among his coevals.

He could run as fast as Billy Goodge, the undisputed leader of the gang; he could dribble the rag football past him any time he desired; once he had sent him home to his mother with a bleeding nose, and, even in that hour of triumph, popular sympathy had been with Billy, not with him.

It was the only problem in existence to which his fatalism did not supply the key.
He knew himself to be a better man than Billy Goodge.

There was no doubt about it.

At school, where Billy was the woodenest blockhead, he was top of his class.