"Oh, I don't know. But I love a round with the fists. I'll teach you."
"All right. But why don't y' chuck farmin' an' go in f' prize fightin'?"
"I wish I could. But my father said no. An' perhaps he's right. But the best thing I know is to fight a fair round. I'll teach you, Len."
"Huh! What's the sense! If y' want exercise, y' c'n rub that horse down a bit cleaner than y' are doin'."
"Stop y' sauce, nipper, or I'll be after y' with a strap!" called Tom. "Come on, Jack. Tea! Timothy's bangin' the billy-can. And just you land that nipper a clout."
"Let him 'it me! Garn, let him!" cried Len, scooting up with his milk-stool and pail and looking like David skirmishing before Goliath. He wasn't laughing. There was a demonish little street-arab hostility in his face.
"Don't you like me, Len?" Jack asked, a bit soft this morning. Len's face at once suffused with a delightful roguishness.
"Aw, yes—if y' like!—I'll be dressin' up in Katie's skirts n' spoonin' y' one of these bright nights."
He whipped away with his milk-pail, like a young lizard.