That was true; you had none.
“I’ll tell my father, then,” you wailed angrily—another empty boast; and still sniffling and, fearsomely gory, with the handkerchiefs of yourself and your one faithful companion quite exhausted, you reached the haven of a friendly pump.
Yet you had not been whipped—not exactly.
“Got licked, didn’t you?” unkindly commented various friends and enemies.
“I didn’t, either!” you asserted, indignant. “I had to quit ’cause my nose was bleedin’. It takes more’n him to lick me.”
“He gave you a bloody nose just the samee.”
You would not admit so much as that.
“He didn’t, either; he never touched my nose. It bleeds awful easy. It bleeds sometimes when you just look at it—don’t it, Hen?”
