“I shall thrash him for his impudence, at any rate.”
“It isn’t exactly civil to tell a fellow you will pound him if he won’t go with us; and who shall thrash you for your impudence, eh, Old England?”
“I mean what I say.”
“We shall allow no fight on this question, my gentle Britisher. If you should happen to hit Burchmore, I have no doubt he would wallop you soundly for your impudence.”
“I should like to see him do it,” cried Clyde, pulling off his coat, and throwing himself into the attitude of the pugilist.
“No, you wouldn’t, Albion; and if you would you can’t have that pleasure. There will be no fight to-day.”
“Yes, there will,” shouted Clyde.
“Not much;” and Sanford, Rodman, and Stockwell placed themselves between Burchmore and Clyde.
“Dry up, Great Britain!” added Wilde.
“We have a point to settle here,” continued Sanford, taking no further notice of the belligerent Briton. “The right hand road goes to Kongsberg; but there is no hotel in that direction where we could sleep to-night. I propose, therefore, that we go on to—what’s the name of the place, Norway?”