"—honestly can't approve of this kind of behavior," James chastised, examining the rips in his son's shirt, doing his best to not be flustered, while Tarzan was already calmly applying a poultice to young Sam's eye, which had already swollen shut with its bruising. Sam winced, but it was a defiant wince, but he still looked ashamed. "It's bad enough that you fought at the docks, but starting one?"
They'd agreed, he and Tarzan, long ago, that they would never shout in front of their son. Only logical, calm discussions were allowed. If something required further discussion, they would take it in private. Given that this discussion concerned Sam, James was worried they'd have to take it in private.
"He had won, though," Tarzan replied, equally calm, thumb smoothing out the paste.
"He won against the many. But you will say your sorries, and no more biting," she looked her son in the eye, "Yes?"
A mixture of pride and reluctance crossed the boy's dark face as he nodded, and James tossed the shirt aside.
"Who won or lost isn't the point," he protested, "The point is that one should never—"
"They were calling you a drunkard, a quack, and a madman," Sam told his father, finally scowling.
James scowled too, but it was more out of exasperation than anger, "I don't care what I'm called, Samson, I care about what happens to y—"
"And they called Mum something impolite." his son said again.
That made James blink, and Tarzan paused in her administrations, but only briefly, checking the boy's knuckles.
"What did they call her?" James asked quietly.
Samson told them.
James' face set, while Tarzan merely blinked.
"We'll need to work on your boxing proper." James told him briefly. "But that still wasn't appropriate of you."
"Yes," Tarzan continued, having had time to think, "While you defended your place, some fights aren't worth the things gained." She showed him some of her own scars, "Some things are stupid to fight for. Today you have stupid scars, but those aren't always avoided. So later try to make the better ones, and fight for things worth fighting. Names are little things. Food isn't. Lives aren't. Gain scars for those, not for names."
She brushed over his knuckles with her own, "Honor these stupid scars by making up for them, and say your sorries."
As she went to clean up, James patted his son on the shoulder.
"Talk with me later," he murmured, "And I'll teach you more about 'politics'."
Sam, confused, and chastised, nodded.
. . .
By the next week, Sam had made new friends, the same who'd he'd met fists with, and was already learning how to play football. Sometimes Tarzan would watch these games with curiosity, and was slightly confused as to why these boys spoke much more nicely than she'd been told. Their parents were nice, too, and it was interesting to hear about the children from the eyes of their mothers.
Of course, people come and go, as the friends and football players and their families did, but James, in later years, would be an avid fan of a football team who took inspiration from a 'Samson T. Porter'.