``Adzooks!'' exclaimed the bailiff---``sure Harry
Wakefield, the nattiest lad at Whitson Tryste,
Wooler Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank, is
not going to show white feather? Ah, this comes
of living so long with kilts and bonnets---men forget
the use of their daddies.''
``I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that
I have not lost the use of mine,'' said Wakefield
and then went on. ``This will never do, Robin.
We must have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk
of the country-side. I'll be d------d if I hurt thee
---I'll put on the gloves gin thou like. Come, stand
forward like a man.''
``To be peaten like a dog,'' said Robin; ``is
there any reason in that? If you think I have done
you wrong, I'll go before your shudge, though I
neither know his law nor his language.''
A general cry of ``No, no---no law, no lawyer!
a bellyful and be friends,'' was echoed by the bystanders.
``But,'' continued Robin, ``if I am to fight, I
have no skill to fight like a jackanapes, with hands
and nails.''
``How would you fight then?'' said his antagonist;
``though I am thinking it would be hard to
bring you to the scratch anyhow.''
``I would fight with proadswords, and sink point
on the first plood drawn---like a gentlemans.
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