The young gentlemen took off their coats, and proceeded to spar without any further ceremony.
Reginald, whose agility was greater than his courage, danced about on the tips of his toes, and succeeded in planting a tap or two on Compton's cheek.
Compton smarted under these, and presently, in following his antagonist, who fought like a shadow, he saw Ruperta and her mother looking horror-stricken over the palings.
Infuriated with Reginald for this exposure, he rushed in at him, received a severe cut over the eye, but dealt him with his mighty Anglo-Saxon arm a full straightforward smasher on the forehead, which knocked him head over heels like a nine-pin.
That active young man picked himself up wondrous slowly; rheumatism seemed to have suddenly seized his well-oiled joints; he then addressed his antagonist, in his most ingratiating tones—“All right, sir,” said he. “You are the best man. I'll go to the old lady this minute.”
“I'll see you go,” said Compton, sternly; “and mind I can run as well as hit: so none of your gypsy tricks with me.”
Then he came sheepishly to the palings and said, “It is not my fault, Miss Bassett; he would not come to mamma without, and she wants to speak to him.”
“Oh! he is hurt! he is wounded!” cried Ruperta. “Come here to me.”
He came to her, and she pressed her white handkerchief tenderly on his eyebrow; it was bleeding a little.
“Well, are you coming?” said Reginald, ironically, “or do you like young women better than old ones?”