"Yes, Razorre, what is it?" he asked, waiting....
"Hank, the boys have delegated me to tell you that you must use better manners than you do, at meals."
"The hell you say! and what are you going to do if I don't?"
"I—why, Hank, I hadn't thought of that ... but, since you bring up the question, I'm going to try to stop you, if you won't stop yourself."
"—think you can?—think you're strong enough?"
"I said 'try'!"
"Listen, Razorre," and he came over to me with lazy, good-natured strength, "I'll pick you up, take you out, and roll you in the snow, if you don't keep still."
"And I'll try my best to give you a good whipping," replied I, setting my teeth hard, and glaring at him.
He started at me, grinning. I put the table between us, and began taking deep breaths to thoroughly oxygenate my blood, so it would help me in my forthcoming grapple with the big, over-grown giant.
He toppled the table over. We were together. I kept on breathing like a hard-working bellows, as I wrestled about with him.