“You look as if you were about twelve or less!”
“The looks make no difference; I am not a child any more, and I don’t propose to be treated like an urchin.”
“Ah! you wish to be looked up to, perhaps?”
“If anyone insults me, he must fight me.”
“Tell me what you have eaten this morning? You are not so ugly as this usually!”
“But you are teasing me! saying things that make me angry!”
“Then as I am in the wrong, thrash me right away and let’s have it over with! But I don’t propose to fight with you, because I am your friend, and I like you with all your ill-humor! Come, strike me!”
As he spoke, Chicotin Patatras—for such was the name of this last individual—coolly planted himself in front of his friend, and stooped as if he were all ready to be beaten. But when he saw that, Georget rose, his anger vanished, and he offered his hand to his comrade, saying:
“Can you think of such a thing? I, strike you! that would be pretty! Come, it is all over, I am not angry any more; nor you either, are you?”
“Oh! I haven’t been at all!”