Mrs Marston smiled to see the rotund little object of two-feet-ten standing before the fire with its legs apart and its arms crossed, putting such a question, and replied—
“Certainly, my boy.”
“And when Tom Blake offered to hit Susy Jefferson, wasn’t I right to fight him for that?”
“Yes, my boy, I think it right to fight in defence of the weak and helpless.”
The object of two-feet-ten began to swell and his eyes to brighten at the unexpected success of this catechising of its mother, and went on to say—
“Well, mother, why do you blame me for fightin’, then, if it’s right?”
“Because fighting is not always right, my boy. You had a fight with Bill Summers, hadn’t you, yesterday?”
“Yes, mother.”
Two-feet-ten said this in a hesitating tone, and shrank into its ordinary proportions as it continued—
“But I didn’t lick him, mother, he licked me. But I’ll try again, mother—indeed I will, and I’ll be sure to lick him next time.”