The small boy said, “You’re a coward an’ a fool, Billy Polk. The cow wasn’t hurtin’ nothin’, an’ you’re just tryin’ to show off, beatin’ that pony.”
Said the other boy, “Shut up, you beggar, or I’ll beat you; an’ I’ll take them breeches you got on off you, an’ you can go without any—they’re mine. My ma give ’em to you.”
The little fellow’s face was scarlet—as much of it as we could see for the freckles—and his eyes were blazing as he replied, “You ain’t man enough. I dare you to strike me or to tech my clothes.”
Both boys were riding bareback. The small boy slid off his pony’s back; the other rode up to him and raised his quirt, but the little one seized him by the leg, and in a jiffy they were in the road fighting like cats. I asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy to drive on, but she said, “If you are in a hurry you can try walkin’; I’m goin’ to referee this scrap.”
It looked for a minute as if the small boy would get a severe beating, but by some trick he hurled the other headlong into the green, slimy water that edged the road; then, seizing the quirt and the opportunity at the same time, he belabored Billy without mercy as that individual climbed up the slippery embankment, blubbering and whipped. Still sobbing, he climbed upon his patient pony, which stood waiting, and galloped off down the lane. The other pony followed and the little conqueror was left afoot.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was beaming with delight. “Sure, ’twas a fine fight, a sight worth coming all this way to see. Ah! but you’re the b’y. ’Tis a dollar I’d be givin’ ye, only me purse is in me stockin’—”
“Oh,” the boy said quickly, “don’t let that stop you. I’ll look off another way.”
I don’t know if she would have given him the money, for just then some men came into the lane with some cattle and we had to start. The boy got up on the back end of the buckboard and we drove on. We could hear our wagons rumbling along and knew they would soon catch up.
“Where is your home, b’y?” asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.