The big fellow clambered up the dam, and stood in front of Bruce.
“Whar’s Bruce Rawdon?” he said, looking round, and pretending not to know that he was there before him. “Whar’s this Bruce Rawdon that youns brag on? Put him down here, fur I want to hev a trial with him—I want to wrastle.”
“My good fellow,” said Bruce, “I’m Bruce Rawdon, and I’m quite at your service. Only you are mistaken if you think that we brag on any one. We’re not a bragging camp.”
The Gaspereaugian looked at him, and made a ridiculous grimace.
“So this is Bruce Rawdon!” said he—“this here! Wal, Rawdon, let’s wrastle. We’ll decide who’s the best man. On’y take care of your close, my fine feller. I’m generally considered rough. Yes, rough as a bar,—that’s what I be.”
“All right,” said Bruce, quietly, and in a minute he had flung off his hat, coat, and waistcoat.
“I’ll keep my duds on,” said the Gaspereaugian; “on’y that—that’s by way of defyin’.”
And saying this he flung his hat on the ground.
Upon this the two champions prepared to grapple.
The place where they stood was a grass plot on one side of the pool. The pool was full to the brim. The “B. O. W. C.” stood on the dam. The Gaspereaugians stood about twenty paces off. It was a moment of intense excitement.