“No,” acknowledged Bobbie.
“Very well, then! You trot off ’fore you get ’urt.
“Who you going to get to ’urt me?” asked Bobbie.
“Going to get no one,” said the first boy aggressively. “Going to do it meself.”
“I should advise you to go into training a bit first,” said Bobbie kindly. “Them arms and wrists of yours I should sell for matches; your boots you might get rid of as sailin’ vessels.”
“’Old my jacket, Nose,” said the boy furiously. “I’ll knock the stuffin’ out of him ’fore I’m many minutes older.”
“With a shirt like yourn,” said Bobbie, edging back a little, “I should keep me jacket on. You’ll frighten all the birds.”
“You’d better be off,” said Nose, feeling it safe now to offer a remark. “Come down ’ere temorrer, and we’ll spoil your face for you.”
“Take a bit o’ doin’ to spoil yourn,” shouted Bobbie.
“Come down temorrer,” repeated Nose defiantly, “and I’ll give you what for.”