"I got summ'at more to tell 'ee—summ'at as I never meant to tell to a soul; when you was down—lyin' at my feet—"
"Yes, George?"
"I—I kicked 'ee—once!"
"Did you, George?"
"Ay—I—I were mad—mad wi' rage an' blood lust, an'—oh, man, Peter!—I kicked 'ee. Theer," said he, straightening his shoulders, "leastways I can look 'ee in the eye now that be off my mind. An' now, if so be you 'm wishful to tak' ye whack at me—why, let it be a good un, Peter."
"No, I shall never raise my hand to you again, George."
"'Tis likely you be thinkin' me a poor sort o' man, arter what—what I just told 'ee—a coward?"
"I think you more of a man than ever," said I.
"Why, then, Peter—if ye do think that, here's my hand—if ye'll tak' it, an' I—bid ye—good-by!"
"I'll take your hand—and gladly, George, but not to wish you good-by—it shall be, rather, to bid you welcome home again."