He replied: "You are not man enough to whip me."
That was all I wanted him to say; so I let fly and gave him a good one on the jaw, and then I kept it up, until he cried worse than I ever did when I went to school. He got out of that school room faster than he came in, and then I called order and went on with my duties just as if nothing had happened out of the regular order.
I remained in Portage City for some time. My pupils liked me and paid their tuition promptly. Some of them paid much more than they could well afford, but they did it voluntarily. I went from Portage to Madison, where I had a good game, but I had to whip a fellow the second day, and in fact I had one or more fights in every town I went to; for there is nearly always some big bully in a town or city that has whipped some one, and he thinks that every one is afraid of him, and he can do just as he pleases; but they found out that they could not run me on my keno business.
A BULL FIGHT.
The steamer John Walsh was on an upward trip, two days out from New Orleans. A crowd of gentlemen were gathered about the bar, punishing wine at $5 a bottle. With flushed faces, jocund laughter, and the incessant pop of the champagne corks, the time flew unheeded past. The barkeeper smiled when at the little window of the bar the ebony head of a stalwart negro appeared.
"Say, boss, gimme some whisky."
Everybody turned, and laughter that was about to burst forth, or the jest that was ready, was hushed; for the negro's head was split open and the blood pouring down his cheeks in rivulets, crimsoning his swarthy, shiny skin and clothing.
"Been fighting?" said the barkeeper.
"Yes; de fireman he butted me."
Up came the mate, who observed: