Brown laughed. He detected the nervousness in his opponent's voice, and had fully expected it. If he had found "Bruce" over-bold, he would have been surprised indeed. As it was, the reply in some way pleased him.
"Well," he said, "you're not going to fight me. I'm not in a fighting mood; I'm going to thrash you."
Betty caught her breath. It certainly entered into her mind to cry out and run away, but she did nothing of the sort, she only clenched her hands, and stood her ground—having as usual a sufficiency of courage for the occasion.
The next minute Brown's great hand had grasped her coat collar, and she felt herself swung round, stood down and swung round again. Then a sharp swish lashed her once, twice, thrice.
Whereupon Betty began to fight on her own account, forgetting all the advice Fred Jones had given her about "hitting out from the shoulder," etc. etc. She kicked Brown's legs with all the strength she could put into her own. She pinched his wrists and his cheek, and lastly and to his disgust she set her sharp little teeth into his hand.
He dropped her quickly, her hat rolled off, and down tumbled her short curly hair. And the moon chose that moment to sail from under the cloud and put Betty's face in a soft silver light.
Brown whistled. "By Jove!" he said, the "sister."
Betty crammed her hat down upon her head again.
"I'm not," she said. "It's not! It's me, Cyril. Come on, coward, bully!"
She made a little rush at him, but Brown threw down his switch.