"You haven't hurt me--much. You've surprised me--more. I reckon we'll continue."
The proceedings recommenced. But this time Mr. Pratt had changed his tactics. Instead of coming up with the apparent intention of wiping his opponent off the face of the earth with a single blow, he played his game more cautiously. He fenced; but, becoming tired of this, and feeling possibly that the whipping was not proceeding fast enough, he led off with his right, and followed on with his left, and Mr. Pownceby countered and returned--returned with such effect that for half a minute Mr. Pratt was dancing about while Mr. Pownceby was performing on him much in the fashion which the regimental drummer beats to quarters on his drum.
"Time!" he cried.
The round was over. A pause ensued, during which his feelings were plainly too deep for words.
"Have you ever had a whipping before?" he asked.
Mr. Pownceby smiled; it was evident that his smile was a smile of enjoyment at last.
"One or two," he said.
"Like this?"
"Not exactly. In England we don't, as a rule, indulge in this form of amusement in the private sitting-room of an hotel."
"Don't you? Well, it's as well. I smelt that a big fight was coming, and it's come. I'm going to enjoy myself entirely. You've closed up one of my eyes, I should say, from the feel of it, for ever. You've broken the bridge of my nose; what there'll be to pay for the blood upon the carpet--there's a quart gone from me already--is more than I quite care to think. Before I've finished whipping you I reckon I'll be slain."