Scarcely had he mumbled this to the end when there came rushing from the city park that adjoined the square a slender little slip of a lad.
“There he is,” said the old colonel. He swallowed a mouthful of red wine and stroked his beard.
The little fellow, who one felt sure by the resemblance must be a brother of little Chubby Cheeks, but a finer and improved edition, ran up, lifted high his portfolio with both hands and gave Long-Shanks a blow on the back that resounded away over to where we sat.
“Bravo!” said the old colonel.
Long-Shanks kicked like a horse at this new assailant. Little-Boy dodged, and the same instant Long-Shanks got a second blow, this time on the head, that sent his cap flying.
Nevertheless, he still kept his prisoner held in the trap and fast by the right hand.
Then Little-Boy tore open his portfolio with frantic haste; from the portfolio he drew out a pen-case, from the pen-case a pen-holder, which all at once he began jabbing into the hand of Long-Shanks that held his brother prisoner.
“Clever lad!” said the colonel to himself. “Fine lad!” His red eyes fairly gleamed with delight.
The affair was now becoming too hot for Long-Shanks. Stung with pain, he released his first opponent to throw himself with furious blows on Little-Boy.
But the latter was now transformed into a veritable little wildcat. His hat had flown from his head, his curly hair clung round his fine, deathly pale face, out of which his eyes fairly burned; the portfolio with all its contents was lying on the ground—over cap, portfolio and all he went for the anatomy of Long-Shanks.