Andy’s sense of British fair play had received a rude shock. “As Methusalem said,” he panted, as he came to his feet, “when in Bohunkia do as the Bohunks do.”
“Take that, Spaghetti!” he shouted, as he kicked the foreigner viciously on the shin. While the latter leaned over in pain, Andy shot a well-directed upper-cut to his face. The big man sat down, a dazed look in his eyes.
Breathless, Donald arrived on the scene, with Gillis puffing in the rear.
Breathing heavily, Andy’s adversary came to his feet, picked up his hat, and with arms wound about his head beat a hasty retreat. Andy was after him like a hornet, sending stinging blows through his vulnerable guard. Donald and Gillis stood with mouths agape to see Andy administering a sound thrashing to a man twice his size. Right to the edge of the woods he relentlessly pursued his fleeing enemy.
Andy’s head was held at its usual cocky angle, and he assumed a swagger as he retraced his steps, but his short legs wobbled and he sank dizzily to a stump.
“I brought ’is blinkin’ meat-’ouse down, Connie,” he gasped.
“Oh, Andy, you’re a darling!” she cried, throwing her arms impulsively around the little man’s neck, and touching her lips to his cheek.
Andy’s florid face took on a deeper magenta, and he blinked hard to hide certain signs of emotion. He afterwards admitted to Donald that he was no “sweet sixteen,” and that it was the first time that he had ever been kissed in his “bloomin’ ” life.
Connie wet her handkerchief in the cold water of the creek and bathed his face with tender care.
She showed Donald and Gillis the nest with the motherless birds, doomed to die a premature death by this act of wanton cruelty, and pointed to the tiny bird on the ground, for whose untimely end Andy had taken a well deserved and summary vengeance. Connie choked as the lovely male bird flew to a stalk of goldenrod near its dead mate and sent out its throaty warble.