“Most distinctly I do, and I can prove my words.”
Clyde was rather startled by this exhibition of pluck, which he had not expected.
“You call me a bully—do you?”
“I do.”
“Then we’ll settle it here. Off with your coat,” blustered Clyde, as he divested himself.
“I never fight if I can help it; but I always defend myself,” replied Burchmore, resuming his walk towards the road.
“Do you mean to run away?” demanded Clyde.
“No; I mean to walk very leisurely back to the station-house.”
“No, you don’t!” said the Briton, again placing himself before the cashier.
Ole, who did not care, under the circumstances, to be seen with Burchmore by any one of the party, had disappeared by this time; but meeting Sanford near the lake, he had informed him what Clyde was doing. The coxswain hastened to the spot, with Stockwell and two or three others. But they were a little too late; for Clyde, feeling that he had gone too far to recede with honor, had struck Burchmore. When Sanford and the rest of the party reached the place, the belligerent Briton lay on the ground, where, after a sharp set-to and a black eye, he had been thrown by his cool opponent. He picked himself up, and was preparing for another onslaught, when the coxswain stepped between the combatants.