“Perhaps,” remarked Lieutenant Chesbrook, “if it were you that had the same hurts, you wouldn’t be so apt to laugh about them.”
“Maybe not,” returned the lad. “But Brewster did not get off unmarked.”
This time the man laughed.
“That Neapolitan strikes a hard blow,” said he.
“Friend Nat is going about with a bandage around his head, at any rate. But he is toughly made, and I think would stand a great deal of rough usage.”
“I may put him to the test if he remains in Boston long,” said Chesbrook, grimly. “And as for that imp who came down upon us with the dog, I’ll be the death of him. The bites which the beast gave me before I could get out of its reach are worse than the other injuries by far.”
“Well, he’s a brisk little villain, that dwarf, for all,” laughed the boy. “I wish he were as fast a friend to me as he is to Nat Brewster. I could make use of him.”
“But what I complain of worse than anything else,” continued the lieutenant, “is the fact that all my hurts are for nothing.”
“But you got a pair of very excellent saddle-bags,” laughingly.
“If you had not valued those boys so lightly,” complained the lieutenant, “it would not have been necessary to resort to this last plan of yours.”