“And then you’ll give it to him again, sir?”
“I don’t want to quarrel or fight with anybody,” said Syd, speaking quickly and excitedly, between the spoonfuls of strong soup he was swallowing.
“Course you don’t, sir; you never was a quarrelsome young gent.”
“But he is beyond bearing.”
“That’s true, sir; so he is. Only I mustn’t say so. Lor’, how I have seen young gents fight afore now; but when it’s been all over, they’ve shook hands as if they’d found out who was strongest, and there’s been an end on it.”
“Yes, Barney.”
“But this young gen’leman, sir, don’t seem to take his beating kindly. Hauls down his colours, and you sends your orficer aboard to take possession—puts, as you may say, your right hand in, but he wouldn’t take it.”
“No, Barney,” said Syd, as the bo’sun winked again to himself, “he wouldn’t shake hands.”
“No, sir; he wouldn’t. I see it all, and thought I ought to stop it, but I knowed from the first you’d lick him; and it strikes me werry hard, Mr Syd, sir, that you’ll have to do all that there bit o’ work over again.”
“But I’m weak now, and he may lick me, Barney,” said Syd, who was making a peculiar noise now with the spoon he held—a noise which sounded like the word soup.