“What!” he cried, “you hide me?”
“See,” he added, “I’ll just put down the eggs in the moss till I give you ‘what-for.’”
He did so as he spoke.
“Come a little way down the wood,” said Barclay, “for fear we break the eggs.”
The thrush was crying piteously for her four eggs.
Now off went two little jackets in a trice.
“Are you ready?” said Barclay Stuart, with flashing eyes.
“Ready enough for a thing like you, anyhow.”
He had hardly completed the last word before a blow on the jaw stretched him out on the sward. He rose like a fury, but his very excitement was against him. Barclay got between his guards. The big boy could flail, but he couldn’t fight, and in five minutes’ time he owned “beat,” and putting on his jacket went sullenly away.
“You won’t shake hands, then?”