"If I talked Indian you could not understand me," said Francisco, pausing squarely in front of the red-haired tormentor; "but if I knock you down Indian, then perhaps you will understand."
"Oh, boys, don't fight," began Nellie, in alarm. "Papa will never let us come out here again if you do. Please, boys."
"He dasn't fight. He's afraid. He had to promise he wouldn't. His priest won't let him, he won't. He's an old Catholic, he is."
"So are we Catholics," cried Walter, pausing and setting his feet squarely apart. "We all are Catholics."
"Like that Indian?" scornfully inquired the other, pointing to Francisco, who now came, with flashing eyes, closer to Walter.
"Yes, like that Indian," Walter replied, unabashed. "Who's meddling with you? Get off here this minute, or I'll make you."
"Boys, boys," pleaded Nellie again, "please don't fight. Let him go."
"I've got as good a right here as any of you old Catholics," sneered their antagonist; but it was noticeable that he gradually backed away as he spoke.
Once more he made a repulsive face; then he began to sing, in a nasal voice: