As he spoke, Harberth twitched, moved his arms and legs, and opened his eyes.
Sitting up, he blinked owl-like and inquired as to what was up.
“You are down is what’s up,” replied Delorme.
“Oh—he’s not dead,” squeaked the Haddock, and there was a piteous break in his voice.
“What’s up?” asked Harberth again.
“Why, Funky—that is to say, Warren—knocked you out, and you’ve got to give him best and ask for pax, or else fight him,” said Delorme, adding hopefully, “but of course you’ll fight him.”
Harberth arose and walked to the nearest seat.
“He hit me a ‘coward’s poke’ when I wasn’t looking,” quoth he. “It’s well known he is a coward.”
“You are a liar, Bully Harberth,” observed Delorme. “He hit you fair, and anyhow he’s not afraid of you. If you don’t fight him you become Funky Harberth vice. Funky Warren—no longer Funky. So you’d better fight. See?” The Harberth bubble was evidently pricked, for the sentiment was applauded to the echo.
“I don’t fight cowards,” mumbled Harberth, holding his jaw—and, at this meanness, Dam was moved to go up to Harberth and slap him right hard upon his plump, inviting cheek, a good resounding blow that made his hand tingle with pain and his heart with pleasure.