But don't you try to make out afterwards that I forced a
quarrel on you. And now," he added, with a grim change of tone that
made Lydia shudder, and shifted her fears to the account of his
antagonist, "I'll make you wish you'd bit your tongue out before you
said what you did a moment ago. So, take care of yourself."
"Oh, I'll take care of myself," said the man, defiantly. "Put up
your hands."
Cashel surveyed his antagonist's attitude with unmistakable
disparagement. "You will know when my hands are up by the feel of
the pavement," he said, at last. "Better keep your coat on. You'll
fall softer."
The rough expressed his repudiation of this counsel by beginning to
strip energetically. A thrill of delight passed through the crowd.
Those who had bad places pressed forward, and those who formed the
inner ring pressed back to make room for the combatants. Lydia, who
occupied a coveted position close to Cashel, hoped to be hustled out
of the throng; for she was beginning to feel faint and ill. But a
handsome butcher, who had made his way to her side, gallantly swore
that she should not be deprived of her place in the front row, and
bade her not be frightened, assuring her that he would protect her,
and that the fight would be well worth seeing.
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