This, however, he found to be an impossibility. Still, he was not disposed to give up the struggle as hopeless.
Peace kept twisting and turning about, in the hope of wearing out his tormentor, and, to say the truth, Mr. Jones soon gave symptoms of distress, as they say in the sporting world; but, to his infinite credit, however, he stuck manfully to his colours, or rather his “man.”
Peace placed one of his knees against the wall of the house, and then threw the upper portion of his body backwards.
This had the effect of forcing Mr. Jones partly through the window. Indeed, he was nearly coming through bodily, so sudden and artful had been his opponent’s movement.
It aint no good, you spiteful little reptile,” cried the footman. “You aint a going to get off—so don’t think it.”
“Aint I,” sneeringly returned our hero, making such a hideous grimace that the flunkey felt perfectly disgusted, “aint I, Mr. Yellowplush? We’ll see presently. Oh, Lord, I wish I had——” he paused suddenly.
“Yes, I dare say you do wish you were on the top of a Brixton bus—eh?”
“Don’t you be so cheeky, Mr. Yellowplush, “cause you see I aint accustomed to give in to the likes of you.”
“Aint you?”
“No, I aint, old ugly mug,” returned Peace, making a still more hideous grimace.