“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”
“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.
“Get up, then.”
“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”
“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.
“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”
“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.
“Get up!” he roared once more.
“Weant!”
As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.