Another smack, and, I suppose, Captain Oakley fell once more.
'Hooray! the dinner-service again, by ——,' roared Dickon. 'Stick to that. Over the same ground—subsoil, I say. He han't enough yet.'
In a perfect tremor of disgust, I was making as quick a retreat as I could, and as I did, I heard Captain Oakley shriek hoarsely—
'You're a d—— prizefighter; I can't box you.'
'I told ye I'd lick ye to fits,' hooted Dudley.
'But you're the son of a gentleman, and by —— you shall fight me as a gentleman.'
A yell of hooting laughter from Dudley and Dickon followed this sally.
'Gi'e my love to the Colonel, and think o' me when ye look in the glass—won't ye? An' so you're goin' arter all; well, follow what's left o' yer nose. Ye forgot some o' yer ivories, didn't ye, on th' grass?'
These and many similar jibes followed the mangled Captain in his retreat.