“No; I won’t hold it,” said Philip; “I’m afraid of it. Perhaps Fred will.”
“No, that I won’t,” said Fred, shrinking back; “I never saw such a nasty-looking thing in my life. What do you keep it for?”
“Keep it for? you cowards,” said Harry, stuffing the animal into his pocket; “you’ll see to-morrow, when we are off rabbiting: why, it’s the best ferret for miles round.” And Harry really believed it was, for the old keeper that he bought it of had told him so, which was quite enough for Harry; but although it was such a good ferret, it had a nasty habit of stopping in a hole as long as it liked, which was sometimes very tiresome when any one was waiting outside upon a cold cutting day.
“Well, I wouldn’t touch it for sixpence,” said Fred; “but I ain’t afraid, only I don’t want to be bitten again by any of your nasty country bumpkin things, else I’d touch it fast enough.”
“I never do,” said Philip; “I hate it, it twines about so. It’s worse than an eel ever so much.”
“Hark at Mrs Phil,” said Harry, grinning. “I say, Fred, he is such a coward; worse than you are a great deal.”
“I’m not a coward,” said Fred, colouring up, and setting his teeth.
“Oh yes, you are!” said Harry, teasing him; “why, all you London boys are cowards. I wouldn’t be a Londoner for ever so much.”
And then, as if prompted by a mischievous inclination, he pulled out the ferret, and pitched it right upon Fred’s shoulders as he stood with his back half turned. Fred gave a cry of fear and anger, and darting at Harry, struck him full in the face a blow that made him stagger backwards.
In a moment Harry recovered himself, and rushed at his assailant; and while Philip, pale and breathless, looked on, the two boys pummelled away at each other like the bitterest enemies.