“You coward! you miserable old Eely tailor!”
“Hold your tongue, will you!” cried Burr major, turning sharply round and giving Mercer a savage kick as he lay on his back, with one boy sitting on his chest, another on his legs.
“Brute!” cried Mercer, setting his teeth and trying hard not to let the tears come.
“You great long coward!” I cried; “you wouldn’t dare to do that if he were not down.”
“You hold your row,” he cried, and as I stood thus held, I received a sharp, back-handed blow on the mouth, which made my lip bleed.
“Bring it out, Dicksee.”
The latter wanted no second telling, but dived down into poor Mercer’s treasure-chest, and brought out the pot of preserving paste.
“There!” cried Burr major, taking up the pot with a face wrinkled up with disgust; “now we’ve found him out. See this, boys. Poison!”
“Oh!” chorused the little party of his parasites.
“That’s the way he does it. He’s worse than a witch. This is what he keeps to give to the fellows, and pretends it’s physic, same as his nasty old father uses.”