He caught the youth by the arm, and drew him, half-resisting, toward the tree.
“No, no, Dinny. Nonsense! I could not climb the tree.”
“Bedad, an’ ye’ve got to climb it!” cried Dinny. “Now, thin, take howld tightly, and up you go.”
“Loose my arm,” said Jack, speaking in a low voice, full of suppressed anger.
“Divil a bit. Ye’ve got to climb that three.”
“Loose my arm, Dinny,” said Jack again.
“Ye’ve got to climb that three, I tell ye, boy. Now, thin, no skulking. Up wid ye.”
“Jack” hung back, with the colour deepening in his cheeks, and a dark look in his eyes, which Dinny could not interpret and, half in anger at the lad’s opposition, half in playful determination, he grasped the youth firmly, and forced him toward the tree.
In an instant Jack flung himself round, with his eyes flashing, and before the Irishman could realise what was coming he went staggering back from the fierce blow he received in his chest, caught his heels against the husk of an overgrown nut, and came down heavily on the sand.
Dinny was an Irishman, and he had received a blow.