“Very well, then, come on!” cried Jim, impulsively, and, pulling off his coat and tossing his hat aside, he began to roll up his shirt-sleeves.
Mr. Hopkins was a bigger and heavier man than the Squire, but Jim had the advantage of him in age, being some five years younger, and they were therefore very well matched. The farmer however, did not wish to fight, and, indeed, was so disconcerted at the prospect that he stood staring at Jim’s lithe, wild figure like a puzzled bull.
“Take your coat off!” Jim shouted. “We’ll have this matter out now. Put up your fists!”
The farmer thereupon dragged off his coat, and a moment later the two men were at it hammer and tongs, Mr. Hopkins’ fists swinging like a windmill, and Jim, with more skill, parrying the blows and sending right and left to his opponent’s body with good effect. The first bout was ended by Jim dodging a terrific right and returning his left to the farmer’s jaw, thereby sending him to the ground.
As he rose to his feet Jim shouted at him: “Well, will you now mend your own damned cart and let me mend my bridge?—or do you want to go on?”
For answer the infuriated Mr. Hopkins charged at him, and, breaking his guard, sent his fist into Jim’s eye; but he omitted to follow up the advantage with his idle left, and, in consequence, received an exactly similar blow upon his own bloodshot optic.
It was at this moment that a scream was heard, and Dolly appeared from behind a hedge, a curious habit of hers, that of always wishing to know what her husband was doing, having led her to follow him into the fields.
“James!” she cried in horror—ever since their marriage she had called him “James”—“What are you doing? Mr. Hopkins!—are you both mad?”
“Pretty mad,” replied Jim.
“Call yourself a gentleman!” roared the farmer, holding his hand to his eye.