“That’s your sort, countryman,” cried Sam. “How do you like that style?”
“Don’t! Be quiet, will you,” said the boy in a suffocated voice, as he sat up once more.
“What for?” cried Sam. “Here, get up and have a round with the gloves. I feel as if I can hit to-night. It’s the rowing. My arms are as hard as wood.”
“No; be quiet,” said Tom huskily. “They’ll hear you down-stairs.”
“Let ’em,” said Sam, chuckling to himself as he dragged open a drawer, and brought out a couple of pairs of boxing-gloves, two of which he hurled with all his might like a couple of balls at his cousin’s head.
But the boy was wide-awake now, and caught each glove in turn, letting it fall afterwards upon the bed before him.
“Now then, shove ’em on,” cried Sam, as he thrust his own hands into the gloves he held. “Look sharp, or I’ll knock you off the bed.”
“No, no,” cried Tom; “don’t be so absurd. How can I when I’m undressed?”
“Put on your trousers then. D’yer hear? Be quick now, or you’ll have it.”
“You’ll have uncle hear you directly if you don’t be quiet.”