“The big fellow there will soon have him in a fix,” now said the colonel, who was earnestly following the movements of the enemy, and who seemed not to approve the tactics of the little chubby boy.
For whom he intended these words it would be hard to say; he spoke them to himself without addressing any one of us.
His prediction was at once justified.
The big fellow dodged the onset of his enemy; the next moment he had his left arm squeezed around the other’s neck, so that the head of the latter was caught as in a noose; he had him, as they say, “in chancery.” With his right hand he gripped the right fist of his opponent, who was trying to pummel him with it on the back, and when he had regularly trapped him and brought him completely under his power he dragged him again and again round and about the lamp-post.
“Clumsy lad,” muttered the old colonel, continuing his monologue, “always to let himself get caught in that way.” He was plainly disappointed in the little chubby boy, and could not endure the long, lanky one.
“They fight that way every day,” he explained, noticing the waiter, to whom he seemed willing to account for his interest in the matter.
Then he turned his face again toward the window. “Wonder if the little one will turn up.”
Scarcely had he mumbled this to the end when there came rushing from the city park that adjoined the square a slender little slip of a lad.
“There he is,” said the old colonel. He swallowed a mouthful of red wine and stroked his beard.
The little fellow, who one felt sure by the resemblance must be a brother of little Chubby Cheeks, but a finer and improved edition, ran up, lifted high his portfolio with both hands and gave Long-Shanks a blow on the back that resounded away over to where we sat.