“But I say,” cried Dicksee, “we ain’t going to fight both together?”
“No,” said Burr major; “you shall dress Jollop down first, and I’ll second you.”
“No; you do yours first.”
“Do as I tell you,” cried Burr sharply, “and don’t waste time. I shall have to wash after thrashing that dirty groom.”
I gave him an angry glance in return for his insult, and then turned to Tom Mercer, who was standing with his brow all wrinkled up, slowly taking off his jacket, which he threw over a beam, and turning up his shirt sleeves above his sharp elbows.
“I’m going to get such a licking,” he whispered.
“No, no; do win!” I whispered back.
“Can’t. He’s so soft you can’t hurt him. He’s just like a big football that you mustn’t kick.”
“His head isn’t soft,” I whispered; “hit that.”
“Now then, ready!” cried Burr, and we faced round, to find Dicksee with his sleeves rolled up, and Burr patting him on the shoulder and giving him instructions.