Part 3 (2/2)
”Yes, you are. If I hit you, I know what you'd do--go and tell your father, and get me sent away.”
”There, then! Does that feel like a coward's blow?--or that?--or that?”
Three sharp cuffs in the chest ill.u.s.trated Sydney's words, two of which the boy bore, flinching at each; but rising beyond endurance by the third, he retaliated with one so well planted that Sydney went down in a sitting position, but in so elastic a fas.h.i.+on that he was up again on the instant, and flew at the giver of the blow.
Then for five minutes there was a sharp encounter, with its accompaniments of hard breathing, muttering, dull sounds of blows and scuffling feet, till a broad-shouldered, red-faced man in a serge ap.r.o.n came down upon them at a trot, and securing each by the shoulder held them apart.
”Now then,” he growled, ”what's this here?”
”Pan hit me, and I'm dressing him down,” panted Sydney. ”Here, let go, Barney.”
”Master Syd hit me first, father,” panted the red-faced boy.
”Howld your tongue, warmint, will you,” said the man in a deep growl.
”Want to have me chucked overboard, and lose my bit o' pension. You're allus a-going at your pastors and masters.”
”Hit me first,” remonstrated the boy, as the new-comer gave him a shake.
”Well, what o' that, you ungrateful young porpuss! Hasn't the cap'n hit me lots o' times and chucked things at me? You never see me flyin' in his face.”
”Chucked a big apple at me first,” cried the boy in an ill-used tone.
”Sarve you right too. Has he hurt you much, Master Sydney?”
”No, Barney; not a bit. There, I was wrong. I didn't know he was there when I threw the apple. I only did it because I felt vicious.”
”Hear that, you young sarpint?” cried the square-shouldered man.
”Yes, father.”
”Then just you recollect. If the young skipper feels wicious, he's a right to chuck apples. Why, it's rank mutiny hitting him again.”
”Hit me first,” grumbled the boy.
”Ay, and I'll hit you first. Why, if I'd been board s.h.i.+p again, instead of being a pensioner and keeping this here garden in order for the skipper, I should have put my pipe to my mouth, and--What say, Master Syd?”
”Don't say any more about it. I'd no business to hit Pan, and I'm sorry I did now.”
”Well, sir, I don't know 'bout not having no business, 'cause you see you're the skipper's son, and nothing does a boy so much good as a leathering; but if you're sorry for it, there's an end on it.
Pan-a-mar, my lad, beg Master Sydney's pardon.”
”He hit me first,” grumbled the boy.
”Do you want me to give you a good rope's-ending, my sonny?” growled the man; ”'cause if you do, just you say that 'ere agen.”
The red-faced boy uttered a smothered growl, and was silent.
<script>