“I could put an epitaph on that face o' your'n,” he threatened.
“It would be your epitaph,” I answered, promptly.
The others laughed and urged me to go on.
He began to jump up and down, with his fists out in front of me.
“Fight me, fight me, if you ain't a coward!” he hissed.
That word was more than I could endure. I flew at Swipes like a panther and floored him. He rose, bleeding, but unwhipped. We fought fiercely up and down among the gravestones, and in a moment were locked together. I had the under hold and forced him into the water-tub. Swipes said that would do, and I released my hold upon him. He rose, dripping, and offered me his hand.
“You're all right,” said he, cheerfully. “I only wanted to know if you could fight.”
He had a kind of pride in his bruised face, and would not let me wash away the blood.
Directly another boy began to dance in front of me. It was a desperate battle I had then, and Swipes, when he saw me getting the worst of it, broke in for the sake of fairness.
“It ain't right,” said he. “You tackled him when he was tired.”