Dexter’s blood was up. There was a long course of bullying to avenge, and he did that again, a good deal harder, with the result that the yell Bob emitted rose well above the rattle of the carriage.
“Well done, young un,” cried Peter delightedly. “That’s right. Give it him again. Here, Dan’l, let ’em have it out, and we’ll see fair!”
“No, no, no!” growled the old gardener, stretching out one hand, and catching Bob by the collar, so as to drag him back into his corner—a job he had not the slightest difficulty in doing. “None o’ that. They’d be blacking one another’s eyes, and there’d be a row.”
“Never mind,” cried Peter, with all the love of excitement of his class.
“No, no,” said Dan’l. “No fighting;” and he gave Dexter a grim look of satisfaction, which had more kindness in it than any the boy had yet seen.
“Here, you let me get at him!” cried Bob.
“No, no, you sit still,” said Dan’l, holding him back with one hand.
The task was very easy. A baby could have held Bob, in spite of the furious show of struggling that he made, while, on the other hand, Peter sat grinning, and was compelled to pass one arm round Dexter, and clasp his own wrist, so as to thoroughly imprison him, and keep him back.
“Better let ’em have it out, Dan’l,” he cried. “My one’s ready.”
“Let me go. Let me get at him,” shrieked Bob.