“I don’t want your ‘buts.’ Can you fight?”
Ernest inquired whether this question was put with a view of gaining general information or for any particular purpose.
“Can you fight?” was the only rejoinder.
Slightly nettled, Ernest replied that under certain circumstances he could fight like a tom-cat.
“Then look out; I’m going to make your head as you have made my dog’s.”
Ernest, in the polite language of youth, opined that there would be hair and toe-nails flying first.
To this sally, Jeremy Jones, for it was he, replied only by springing at him, his hair streaming behind like a Red Indian’s, and, smiting him severely in the left eye, caused him to measure his length upon the floor. Arising quickly, Ernest returned the compliment with interest; but this time they both went down together, pummelling each other heartily. With whom the victory would ultimately have remained could scarcely be doubtful, for Jeremy, who even at that age gave promise of the enormous physical strength which afterwards made him such a noted character, must have crushed his antagonist in the end. But while his strength still endured Ernest was fighting with such ungovernable fury, and such a complete disregard of personal consequences, that he was for a while, at any rate, getting the best of it. And luckily for him, while matters were yet in the balanced scales of Fate, an interruption occurred. For at that moment there rose before the blurred sight of the struggling boys a vision of a small woman—at least she looked like a woman—with an indignant little face and an uplifted forefinger.
“O, you wicked boys! what will Reginald say, I should like to know? O, you bad Jeremy! I am ashamed to have such a brother. Get up!”
“My eye!” said Jeremy thickly, for his lip was cut; “it’s Dolly!”