“Yes,” cried Roy, standing on his guard; “but look out this time, Ben, because I mean you to have something.”
“That’s right, sir; but mind this: I’m not going to let my stick travel like a snail after a cabbage-leaf this time. I’m going to cut as I should with a sword, only I’m going to hit as if you were made of glass, so as not to break you. Now!”
The old soldier’s eyes flashed as he threw one foot forward, Roy doing the same; but it was his newly polished sword that flashed as he prepared to guard the cuts, taking care, or meaning to take care, to hold his blade at such an angle that the stick would glance off. The encounter ended in a few seconds. Whizz, whirr, pat, pat, pat, and the elastic ash sapling came down smartly upon the boy’s arms, legs, sides, shoulders, and finished off with a rap on the head, with the result that Roy angrily threw the sword jangling upon the floor, and stood rubbing his arms and sides viciously.
“You said you were going to hit at me as if I were made of glass,” cried the boy.
“So I did. Don’t mean to say those taps hurt you?”
“Hurt? They sting horribly.”
“Why, those cuts would hardly have killed flies, sir. But why didn’t you guard?”
“Guard? I did guard,” cried Roy, angrily, as he rubbed away; “but you were so quick.”
“Oh, I can cut quicker than that, sir. You see I got in before you did every time. I’d cut, and was on my way to give another before you were ready for the first. Come, they don’t tingle now, do they?”
“Tingle? Yes. Here, I want a stick. I’m not going to leave off without showing you how it does hurt.”