“Won’t the horse satisfy you?”
“Horse nor bellows either.”
“No mercy, then.”
“Here’s at you.”
“Mind your eyes, Jack. There, you’ve got it. I thought so,” shouted the girl, as the fellow staggered
back from a sharp blow in the eye. “I thought he was chaffing at you all along.”
“Never mind, Anselo. You know what to do—go in,” said the vulgar woman, who had hitherto not spoken a word, but who now came forward with all the look of a fury; “go in, apopli; [{87}] you’ll smash ten like he.”
The Flaming Tinman took her advice, and came in bent on smashing, but stopped short on receiving a left-handed blow on the nose.
“You’ll never beat the Flaming Tinman in that way,” said the girl, looking at me doubtfully.
And so I began to think myself, when, in the twinkling of an eye, the Flaming Tinman disengaged himself of his frock-coat, and, dashing off his red nightcap, came rushing in more desperately than ever. To a flush hit which he received in the mouth he paid as little attention as a wild bull would have done; in a moment his arms were around me, and in another, he had hurled me down, falling heavily upon me. The fellow’s strength appeared to be tremendous.