“Taller,” sneered Titus; “you’re soft like a stick of candy.”
He began his sentence on his feet, but finished it on his back in a bank of snow.
He was up like a flash and standing before Dallas, who was ejaculating, “You little black lead pencil.”
Titus’s wrath was all gone, to the Judge’s amazement, and he was gurgling in his throat: “How did you do it? Teach me that trick—come on, Dallas, teach me.”
The English boy’s contempt faded, and he smiled complacently at the changed face before him.
“I will tell you something,” he said, grandly. “Once my father was to figure in a wrestling match on the stage. Now, he was a good all-round athlete, but he was not satisfied with himself. We were in New York at the time. You have heard of Billy McGee, the trainer?”
Titus caught his breath. “O, yes—yes.”
“Well, he got Billy McGee to come and train him. It cost a fearful sum, but father gave it. Billy taught my father, and my father taught me. So you needn’t fight my battles any more.”
Titus’s face was glowing. “I say,” and he linked his arm in Dallas’s, “tell me some of those tricks of throwing. I don’t know a thing.”
The Judge groaned. The boys were walking away together arm in arm. “O, this glorification of brute strength,” he muttered, “the bane of the rising generation,” and holding out a finger to the pigeon, who was bowing and cooing to him, he stepped into the house. He must talk to these boys on the subject of fighting, and seating himself in his favorite chair he began to prepare a fatherly or grandfatherly speech.