“I’m going to,” cried Edgar, with a vicious laugh. “I’m going to play at French and English, and you’re the beggarly Frenchman at Waterloo. That’s the way to charge bayonets. How do you like that, and that, and that!”
“Not at all,” said Dexter, trying hard to be good-humoured.
“Then you’ll have to like it, and ever so much more, too. Get up, blackguard. Do you hear?”
Dexter rose and retreated; but, with no little agility, Edgar got before him, and drove him toward the water, stabbing and lunging at him so savagely, that if he had not parried some of the thrusts with his hands his face must have been torn.
Edgar grew more and more excited over his work, and Dexter received a nasty dig on one hand, another in the cheek, while another grazed his ear.
This last was beyond bearing. The hurt was not so bad as several which he had before received; but, perhaps from its nearness to his brain, it seemed to rouse Dexter more than any former blow, and, with an angry cry, he snatched at and caught the stick just as it came near his face.
“Let go of that stick! Do you hear?” cried Edgar.
For response Dexter, who was now roused, held on tightly, and tried to pull the stick away.
“Let go,” cried Edgar, tugging and snatching with all his might.
Dexter’s rage was as evanescent as it was quick. It passed away, and as his enemy made another furious tug at the stick Dexter suddenly let go, and the consequence was the boy staggered back a few yards, and then came down heavily in a sitting position upon the grass.