“Couldn’t help it, uncle,” said Vane. “You wouldn’t have had me lie down and be thrashed without hitting back.”
“Oh, my dear!” cried Aunt Hannah, “you shouldn’t fight.”
“Of course not,” said the doctor, sternly. “It is a low, vulgar, contemptible, disgraceful act for one who is the son of a gentleman—to—to— Did you win?”
“Yes, uncle,” cried Vane; and he lay back in the easy chair into which he had been forced by Aunt Hannah, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Aunt Hannah seized him and held him.
“Oh, my love,” she cried to the doctor, “pray give him something: sal-volatile or brandy: he’s hysterical.”
“Nonsense!” cried the doctor. “Here—Vane—idiot, you leave off laughing, sir?”
“I can’t, uncle,” cried Vane, piteously; “and it does hurt so. Oh my! oh my! You should have seen the beggars run.”
“Beggars? You’ve been fighting beggars, Vane!” cried Aunt Hannah. “Oh, my dear! my dear!”
“Will you hold your tongue, Hannah,” cried the doctor, sternly. “Here, Vane, who ran? Some tramps?”