“Oh yes, often; I generally used to win. I’ve got such a hard head and such bony knuckles. But, I say, you don’t think I should be afraid to fight, do you?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t be,” cried Andrew, with animation, “and—and, there I beg your pardon for treating you as I have and for calling you a coward. It was a lie, Frank, and—will you shake hands?”
There was a rapid movement, and this time the boy’s fist flew out, but opened as it went and grasped the thin white hand extended toward him.
“I say, don’t please; you hurt,” said Andrew, screwing up his face.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried the boy. “I didn’t mean to grip so hard. I say, though, is it as the officers say to the soldiers?”
“What do you mean?” said Andrew wonderingly.
“As you were?”
“Of course. I’m sure our fathers never quarrelled and fought, and I swear we never will.”
“That’s right,” cried Frank.
“And I never felt as if I liked you half so much as I do now. Why, Frank, old fellow, you seem as if you had suddenly grown a year older since we began to quarrel.”