“It was the evenest and longest fight ever fought: everybody was tired of it, and I must admit, in truth, that I was” (here he made an effort to enter the tavern.) But several voices called out:
“Which whipped? How did you come out?”
“Why, much as I tell you; we had it round and round, about and about, over and under. I could throw him at rastle, but he would manage some way to turn me. Old Sparrowhawk was there, who had seen all the best fighting at Natchez, under the hill, in the days of Dad Girty and Jim Snodgrass, and he says my gouging was beautiful; one of Bill’s eyes is like the mouth of an old ink-bottle, only, as the fellow said, describing the jackass by the mule, it is more so. But, in fact, there was no great choice between us, as you see. I look like having ran into a brush fence of a dark night. So we made it round and round, about and about”—(here again he attempted a retreat into the tavern.)
But many voices demanded, “Who hollored?”
“Which gave up?”
“How did you hurt your hand?”
“Oh! I forgot to tell you, that as I aimed a sockdollager at him he ducked his head, and he can dodge like a diedapper, and hitting him awkwardly, I sprained my wrist; so, being like the fellow who, when it rained mush, had no spoon, I changed the suit, and made a trump—and went in for eating. In the scuffle we fell, cross and pile, and, finding his appetite good for my finger, I adopted Doctor Bones’, the toolsmith’s, patent method of removing teeth without the aid of instruments, and I extracted two of his incisors, and released my finger. However, I shall, for some time, have an excuse for wearing gloves without being thought proud.” (He now tried to escape under cover of a laugh.)
But vox populi again.
“So you tanned him, did you?”
“How did the fight finish?”