“You’d better not touch us, old Serge,” cried the biggest lad, in a whining tone. “You touch me and see if my father don’t mark you!”
“I’m not going to touch you, boy,” replied the herdsman. “I’ve done all I wanted to you for breaking down my grape poles that I cut and set up. I’ve got you here because you wanted to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight,” cried the youngest of the party. “You’d better let us go.”
“Yes, I’m going to as soon as you’ve fought young Marcus and beat him as you meant to.”
“We don’t want to fight,” half sobbed another. “We want to go home.”
“I don’t believe it,” growled Serge. “You want to whip young Marcus, and I’m going to see you do it; only old Lupe, our dog, and me’s going to see fair.”
“No, you ain’t!” came in chorus. “You’ve got to call that dog off and let us go.”
“Yes, when you’ve done,” said the old soldier, with a grin. “Who’s going to be the first to begin? For it’s going to be a fair fight, not six all at once upon one. Now then, anyhow you like, only one at a time. What, you won’t speak? They’re nice boys, Marcus, my lad, so modest they don’t like to step before one another; so you’ll have to choose for yourself. Just which you like, but I should go or that big fellow first.”
“I don’t want to fight,” whined the lad indicated, and he backed in among his companions and placed himself as far behind them as he could.
“Oh, come! This is wasting time. There, go and fetch him out into the middle, Marcus, my lad—or no, I’ll do it.”