“You are very rude,” I said, “to speak like that.”
A shout of laughter greeted this speech, whilst the same boy intimated that I was “a confounded young prig!”
“Oh, here you are!” said Fraser, who suddenly appeared on the scene. “I’ve been looking for you. What do you mean by shying a book at me?”
“Why, you kicked me for no reason at all,” I replied. “It is I who have cause to complain of you.”
“Oh, you have, have you? then take that?”
Before I knew what was going to be done, Fraser suddenly struck me full in the face. The blow was so severe that for a second or two I scarcely knew what had happened. Then, however, I realised the fact, and, rushing at Fraser, I struck wildly at him. Without seeming to disturb himself much, Fraser either guarded off my blows or quickly dodged so as to avoid them; and when he saw an opportunity, as he soon did, he punished me severely.
Fraser was smaller than I was, but was certainly stouter, and he possessed what I did not, viz, skill in the use of his fists. This was the first fight I had ever been in, whilst he was an old hand at pugilistic encounters. The result, consequently, was what might be expected, viz, in ten minutes I was entirely beaten, all my strength seemed gone, and I was unable to raise a hand in my defence.
“Don’t you shy a book at me again,” said Fraser as he left me leaning against the wall, trying to recover myself.
“Bravo, Fraser! well done!” said one or two boys who had formed a ring round us as we fought. Not a boy seemed to pity me, or to be disposed to help me, and I felt as utterly miserable as a boy could feel.
As I leant against the wall, with my handkerchief to my nose, a boy named Strong came up and said,—