“Why, to back it—to back it, you know. He said I da’sn’t back it, an’ I had to or else I’d be a coward, an’ he hit me, an’ I hit him, an’—”
“But how could you back being a liar? I don’t understand.”
She was a darling mother, yet at times surprisingly dense.
“I did back it, though, just the same.” That ought to be exposition enough, and you galloped on with your narrative: “An’ I hit him, an’ he hit me right on the forehead,—but it didn’t hurt,—an’ I—an’ then we got each other down, an’ I was gettin’ on top, an’ then the kids pulled him off, an’ a man came by an’ wouldn’t let us fight any more. Ted’s ten, an’ I’m only nine.”
Thus, with a little valorous touch, you finished your story. This much you accomplished, even though you evidently had failed in bringing your mother to a clear perception of “backing it.”
Father looked at you inquiringly.
“What’s that, John? Fighting! With whom?”
“John had a fight this afternoon; have you heard about it?” asked your mother, gravely, of your father at supper.
“‘SAY, SPECK SAYS HE CAN LICK YOU’”