Thus adjured, Mason made a gesture with his open palm. Bob let out two little fists, hard as bats, one of which caught Mason in the eye, the other on the nose, and then went whirling among the tipping chairs and tables, rolling his fists over each other, as if grinding up for another blow, as he cried, "Come on, ye dog-goned gas-bag! I'll knock the socks off'n ye."
Wrath carried little Bob back to the playground. It was superbly ridiculous, but Aunt Fanny's champion was clearly discomfited; his fine lawn front was dabbled with blood, and a discoloration promised a southerly wind and a cloudy eye by morning. He withdrew, followed by Payne, who snuffed frolic mischief in the wind.
"This is not the last of it," said Mason, as he went out, in a threatening tone.
"Of course not," said Payne. "A blow has passed. But you have a soft thing of it: I don't think the other cocktail will fight. But didn't he hit out, though?" and he burst into shouts of laughter at the late scene.
Mason could not join in it very heartily: his comb was cut terribly. He had got on amazingly as Hector with the nodding plume to his little cousin that evening; but Hector with his eye blacked and his nose bloodied! He heard Bob crow, as he would have crowed had the victory been his, and he felt there must be something done.
Bob would have withdrawn too, but Warrener said, "No: you said all that was sufficient. Don't let that old griffin think you have been hectored off the place."
So Bob stayed, distrait, uneasy. Presently, little Sue, who had heard nothing, came to him, looking very pretty in her fluttering ribbons and flower-trimmed skirts. "I am going into town to-morrow—shopping," she said slyly.
"Yes," said Bob, distrait, uncomfortable, for he saw Patsey Warrener whispering to the dowager and looking at him.
"Shopping," repeated Sue, "all day, but—"
Bob was not even looking at her: he was looking at the two women.