“Tight,” cried Dan.
“Tight,” repeated Matt.
“There, don’t let go—oh! hup!”
The grasp of Dan suddenly relaxed when Matt and his Englishmen were straining their utmost. Of course they went back on the top of each other in a wild jumble, while Dan, having put a foot well back, was prepared, and stood comparatively firm.
“You did that a-purpose,” cried Matt, springing up and glaring.
“I know you did it a-purpose,” retorted Dan.
“But—but I said that—that you did it a-purpose,” stammered Matt.
“Well, an’ didn’t I say that you said that I said you did it a-purpose?”
A yell of delight followed this reply, in which, however, Matt did not join.
Like his father, Matt Quintal was short in the temper—at least, short for a Pitcairn boy. He suddenly gave Dan McCoy a dab on the nose with his fist. Now, as every one must know, a dab on the nose is painful; moreover, it sometimes produces blood. Dan McCoy, who also inherited a shortish temper from his father, feeling the pain, and seeing the blood, suddenly flushed to the temples, and administered to Matt a sounding slap on the side of the head, which sent him tumbling on the grass. But Matt was not conquered, though overturned. Jumping up, he made a rush at Dan, who stood on the defensive. The other children, being more gentle in their natures, stood by, and anticipated with feelings of awe the threatened encounter; but Thursday October Christian, who had listened with eager ears, ever since his intelligence dawned, to the conversations of the mutineers, here stepped between the combatants.