“I am afraid it means a fight, Singh,” said Glyn quietly. “Well, I dare say we can get over it. I am not going to knuckle down to that fellow. Are you?”
“Am I?” cried the boy, flashing a fierce look at his English companion. “What do you think?”
Glyn laughed softly and merrily.
“Shall I tell you?” he said.
“Yes, of course,” cried the Indian boy hotly.
“Well, I think you will.”
“What!”
“When you can’t lift hand or foot, and your eyes are closing up so as you can hardly see.”
“And I won’t give up then!” cried the boy passionately.
“Well, don’t get into a wax about it, old chap,” said Glyn in a dry, slow way. “I don’t suppose you’ll have to, for the big chuckle-headed bully will have to lick me first, and I dare say I can manage to tire him so that you can easily lick him in turn.”