"Ah--I knowed as much!" John sighed mournfully as he aided Barnabas
to his feet, "and 't were only a love-tap, so to speak,--this is
what comes o' your book reading."
"Try me again," said Barnabas.
"It'll be harder next time!" said his father.
"As hard as you like!" nodded Barnabas.
Once more came the light tread of quick-moving feet, once more John
Barty feinted cunningly--once more his fist shot out, but this time
it missed its mark, for, ducking the blow, Barnabas smacked home two
lightning blows on his father's ribs and danced away again light and
buoyant as a cork.
"Stand up an' fight, lad!" growled his father, "plant your feet
square--never go hopping about on your toe-points like a French
dancing-master."
"Why as to that, father, Natty Bell, as you know, holds that it is
the quicker method," here Barnabas smote his father twice upon the
ribs, "and indeed I think it is," said he, deftly eluding the
ex-champion's return.
"Quicker, hey?" sneered his father, and with the words came his
fist--to whizz harmlessly past Barnabas's ear--"we'll prove that."
"Haven't we had almost enough?" inquired Barnabas, dropping his fists.
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