It was the first time that Hubert had ever dared call Gaston so, and, though he felt himself under Andrew’s protection, he was half afraid.
And small wonder. The angry flame that leapt into Gaston’s eyes at his words was ill to see.
“Don’t say that again,” he said, speaking in a slow, threatening voice.
“Hullo, you small boys, what are you about?” cried Jack, looking back, “what’s up, eh, Andrew?”
“It strikes me someone will soon be down,” laughed Andrew, “these small boys can’t settle their difficulties, eh, Mamselle Gaston?”
“Eh, Mamselle Gaston?” echoed Hubert, but before he could say another word, before anyone could interfere, Gaston, losing all self-control, fell upon Hubert, and dealt him such a blow, that he was sent rolling head over heels down the grassy bank, at the top of which the fray had begun. But Gaston had not finished with him then.
Down the bank he followed, collaring Hubert, before the latter could find his feet, and shaking him with a fury that almost frightened Jack and Phil. Hubert’s nose was streaming with blood, and he looked a pitiable object when Jack extricated him from Gaston’s clutches, but that was not directly. Jack had a schoolboy’s sense of justice, and though Hubert was very dear to him, he knew that he must have drawn this chastisement on himself by his incorrigible cheekiness.
“Now, you’ve both had a jolly good mill,” he said, using his own handkerchief on his little brother’s face with rough tenderness, “and you’ll be both a deal the better for it. Shut up, Andrew, will you?” as the latter tried to egg the combatants on afresh. “My word, old chap, you’ll have a glorious black eye, and no mistake, but I’ll be bound you’ve deserved it. It’s been our fault, though, for not licking you more. Now, Gaston, old man, come and shake hands with your vanquished foe.”
“Yes, and hold up your pecker,” said Phil, patting Gaston on the back, “for you’re a jolly good fellow, who has learnt at last how to use his fists.”
“Yes, yes,” chimed in Jack, “he’s a jolly good fellow.”