“Ha! ha! ha! I can not help it, Ned; so don't buffet me. You forced me into many a fight when I was a boy, for which I had no stomach; I trust you will not pummel me yourself because the world has grown so hatefully pacific. Tell me, in plain terms, who I am to fight now.”
“Who! who but Stevens?—this fellow Stevens. He's your enemy, you say—comes between you and your sweetheart—between you and your own mother—seems to look down upon you—speaks to you as if he was wiser, and better, and superior in every way—makes you sad and sulky to your best friends—you growl and grumble at him—you hate him—you fear him—”
“Fear him!”
“Yes, yes, I say fear him, for it's a sort of fear to skulk off from your mother's house to avoid seeing him—”
“What, Ned, do you tell me that—do you begrudge me a place with you here, my bed, my breakfast?”
“Begrudge! dang it, William Hinkley, don't tell me that, unless you want me to lay heavy hand on your shoulder!”—and the tears gushed into the rough fellow's eyes as he spoke these words, and he turned off to conceal them.
“I don't mean to vex you, Ned, but why tell me that I skulk—that I fear this man?”
“Begrudge!” muttered the other.
“Nay, forgive me; I didn't mean it. I was hasty when I said so; but you also said things to provoke me. Do you suppose that I fear this man Stevens?”
“Why don't you lick him then, or let him lick you, and bring the matter to an ending? Find out who's the best man, and put an end to the growling and the groaning. As it now stands you're not the same person—you're not fit company for any man. You scarcely talk, you listen to nobody. You won't fish, you won't hunt: you're sulky yourself and you make other people so!”