“Now then,” said he, advancing towards me in a boxing attitude, “I’ll teach you to call me a thief!”
I was so utterly taken aback by all this, that I could scarcely believe I was not dreaming.
“I really didn’t call you a thief,” I said.
“You mean to say you won’t fight?” cried my adversary, sparring up at me.
“Hold hard!” cried Daly, before I could answer. “Of course he’s going to fight; but give him time to peel, man. Look alive, Batchelor, off with your coat.”
“I’m not going to fight, indeed,” said I, in utter bewilderment.
“Yes you are,” said Flanagan, “and it won’t be your first go in either, old man. I’ll back you!”
One or two of the fellows pulled off my coat—my poor seedy coat. I remember even then feeling ashamed of the worn flannel shirt, out at elbows, that was below it, and which I had little expected any one that evening to see.
“Will you have your waistcoat off?” said Daly.
“No,” replied I.