The response was unexpected.  Snatching up a prime cod by the tail, the lad dashed its head full in Noakes’s face.  Noakes winced at the cold, slimy contact, staggered, then lurched forward, raising his umbrella once more to strike.  The lad was too quick for him.  Dropping his basket, he wrenched the umbrella away, flung it into the gutter, and, squaring his shoulders, commenced that curious piston-like movement of the two arms which is the street boy’s preliminary to a sparring bout. Suddenly his right fist shot out, and planted a blow in the man’s midriff.  A crowd quickly assembled.