“This is the first time Billy Whiskers has ever waved the white feather,” he mused, hanging his head for very shame as he thought of the cowardice of his actions. “I can never, never redeem myself and—and, say, wouldn’t all my friends deride me if they knew? But I shall hide my disgrace and keep it a close secret. Even old Browny at the Farm shall never know, and I tell him most everything I do or think.”
“Reputation is a great thing in this world, but self-esteem is better,” he philosophized. “I shall always know that away down deep in the very bottom of my heart I am a coward, and that is what hurts. I am half tempted this minute to return and give battle even if—but hello, there he is and the opportunity to redeem myself is here!”
With that Billy was off like a rocket, and made his onslaught without a moment to consider what the result might be.
With one leap he dashed at the goat, struck something hard—and crash fell the mirror, for Billy had charged his own likeness in the Laughing Gallery. Enraged by the noise of the falling of the shattered glass, he plunged back to renew the contest. There before him stood his foe unharmed, with head lowered and as eager for the fray as he.
Once more forward, once more only the impact with the splintered glass, and then another backward leap to locate his slippery enemy.
“Ah, ha! You won’t escape me the third time, my fine friend,” mumbled Billy, with blood in his eye, gazing steadfastly into Billy the Second’s, where gleamed the same bold, undaunted spirit.
“Come on! Come on! Fight fair!” bellowed Billy, renewing the fray—and the third pier-glass was in atoms.
“Clear the room! Clear the room! Everybody out!” rang the cry, but small need to issue the command, for those who had come to laugh had departed quickly, as eager to be out and away from the scene of strife as the burly, blue-coated officer was to have them.
“Hi, there, goat!” he shouted, and at the summons Billy turned to see the officer bearing swiftly down upon him.