“You're a coward!” sneered Mike, gaining courage as he saw Paul was not disposed for an encounter.
“I don't think I am,” said Paul, coolly.
“I'll hold your shirt,” said Mike's companion, with a grin, “if you want to fight.”
Paul, however, did not care to intrust the shirt to a stranger of so unprepossessing an appearance.
He, therefore, attempted to pass on. But Mike, encouraged by his reluctance, stepped up and shook his fist within an inch of Paul's nose, calling him at the same time a coward. This was too much for Paul's self-restraint. He dropped the shirt and pitched into Mike in so scientific a manner that the latter was compelled to retreat, and finally to flee at the top of his speed, not without having first received several pretty hard blows.
“I don't think he will meddle with me again,” said Paul to himself, as he pulled down the sleeves of his jacket.
He walked back, and looked for the shirt which he had laid down before commencing the combat. But he looked in vain. Nothing was to be seen of the shirt or of Mike's companion. Probably both had disappeared together.