“Better not give me any of your sass!” you growled.
“Pooh! What’ll you do!” he growled back.
“I’ll show you what I’ll do.”
“You couldn’t hurt a flea.”
“I couldn’t, couldn’t I?”
“Naw, you couldn’t, ‘couldn’t I.’”
Walking circles around each other, after this fashion you and he sowed crimination and recrimination, while larger and larger waxed an audience hopeful of seeing them spring up as blows.
Only when the flurry came did you discover too late how much taller and stronger and older than you he was. Your bleeding nose showed this to you; and cowed and weeping, you retreated in bad order.
“I’ll tell my big brother, an’ he’ll fix you!” you howled threateningly.
“Aw, he ain’t got any big brother,” jeered the heartless crowd, who saw no pathos in your abused organ.