Gerald, who had witnessed his friend’s prowess, didn’t feel quite so certain of this.
“I thought you’d crawl,” chuckled the old man, using an expression more common in that locality than further east. “Ben’s a chip of the old block, he is! He can lay out any tarnal Britisher you can fetch round.”
Noel Brooke felt that it was foolish, but this good-natured depreciation of his abilities didn’t fail to nettle him. He again surveyed Ben with a critical eye, and took stock of his points as a fighting man. He saw that as an antagonist he was not to be despised. Yet in his own case he possessed a scientific training to which Ben could lay no claim. Then, again, he was unusually strong and muscular for a man of his small proportions. He felt sure that even if conquered, Ben would not gain an easy victory, and—though it was a risk—he decided to take it.
“I don’t mind having a little contest with your son—friendly of course,” he said quietly, as he rose in a leisurely, almost languid, way from his low seat.
“What!” ejaculated Mr. Peters, almost doubting if he heard aright, “you are willing to tackle Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Ho, ho! this is rich!” said the old man with an irresistible guffaw. “You; oh jeminy!” and he nearly doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth.
“You seem amused,” said the tourist, rather provoked at the old man’s estimate of his fighting ability.
“Excuse me, stranger! You’re the pluckiest man I’ve met in many a long day. It does seem redikilus your standing up against Ben!”