“What? do you mean to go?”
“Yes,” I said gloomily, “I suppose so.”
“And do you mean to fight?”
“If I’m obliged. You may just as well have a few cracks at him as take it all for nothing. You’ll come?”
“Oh, all right, but we shall get an awful licking,” said Tom huskily. “I can’t fight a bit. It’s all gammon—that poking out your left arm and fending with your right. I like to hit out with my right arm.”
“I don’t like hitting out at all,” I said gloomily.
“But shall you try?”
“I don’t know, Tom,” I replied in a desponding tone. “Oh, I do wish boys wouldn’t be such beasts! Come on.”
“All boys ain’t,” said Mercer, as we moved off toward the yard. “Oh, don’t I wish the time had been quite ripe, and we could have astonished ’em! It’s always the way. I make such jolly plans, and think they’re going to turn out all right, but they don’t. Never mind. I never told you what I’ve got saved up in my box ready in case of accidents.”
“No,” I said; “what is it?”