THE DUEL. 21

CHAPTER III.
THE DUEL.

ROTTY winked for a minute, very hard and fast. He

looked Pompey Merino over from head to foot. Pom-
pey was at least a half an inch the taller, and his pants were
long.

“T have n’t got a pistol,” said Trotty. ‘I’ve lost the cork
out of mine; and my pop-gun does n’t pop very well. I
tried it with some smashed potatoes yesterday.”

“ You ’re a cow—ard!” said. Pompey, turning away.

“T’ll punch you!” said Trotty, growing hot.

““ Well then!” said Pompey, “fists, then. I challenge
you, sir, to fists!” Now, Trotty had two very tough little
browned and hacked and muddy fists of his own, and he
doubled them up with zest; he felt the ugly, fighting fecling
come out all over him; he felt like a little dog when another
little dog snaps at him. He looked something like one too, for
his mouth was open, and his eyes flashed, and it seemed al-
most as if he pricked his ears up under his soft, spanicl-like
hair. It is so much more dog-like than boy-like after all to
fight ! :

“Fists, sir,” said Pompey; “on top of the wall, if you
please. Whichever man knocks the other man off Indiana
first shall get her, sir!”