“No, not half,” cried Syd, rushing at him.
“Look at that! See his teeth?” said Barney. “That’s British bull-dog, that is. Master Syd never fights till he’s made, but when he does—My eye! that was a crack.”
But it was not Barney’s eye. It was Terry’s, and the blow was so sharp that the receiver went down into a corner, and refused to get up again, while the subjects of the fallen king crowded round the victor eager to shake hands.
“No, no,” panted Syd; “don’t: my knuckles are all bleeding. What’s my face like?” he said sharply to Roylance.
“Knocked about; but never mind that, Belton; you’ve won.”
“I don’t mind,” was the reply; “and I don’t want to win. Are you much hurt?” he continued, going to Terry’s corner, where the vanquished hero was still seated upon the floor with little Jenkins, with much sympathy, offering to sponge his face.
“I’m sorry we fought,” said Syd, quietly. “Shake hands.”
There was no reply.
“You’re not hurt much, are you?”
Terry gave him one quick look, and then let his head down on his chest.