“Nay, sir, I already owe you much. Let them not trouble you. I will take them myself.” “No, no, stranger!” was the reply of our fisherman, as he stooped down and busied himself in making the garments into a compact bundle; “I'm not the man to leave off without doing the thing I begin to do. I sometimes do more than I bargain for--sometimes lick a man soundly when I set out only to tweak his nose; but I make it a sort of Christian law never to do less. You may reckon to find your clothes home by the time you get there. There's your road.” “A regular pair of cubs!” muttered the horseman, as he ascended the hill. “To purse up his mouth as if I was giving him root-drink, when I was telling him about Mother Frey's spoiling the fish! Let him take care--he may get the vinegar next time, and not the fish!” And, with these characteristic commentaries, the parties separated for the time. CHAPTER XVII. PHILOSOPHY OP FIGHTING. “You're not a fighter, Bill Hinkley, and that's about the worst fault that I can find against you.” Such was the beginning of a dialogue between the cousins some three days after the affair which was narrated in our last chapter. The two young men were at the house of the speaker, or rather at his mother's house; where, a favorite and only son, he had almost supreme dominion. He was putting his violin in tune, and the sentences were spoken at intervals with the discordant scraps of sound which were necessarily elicited by this unavoidable musical operation. These sounds might be said to form a running accompaniment for the dialogue, and, considering the sombre mood of the person addressed, they were, perhaps, far more congenial than any more euphonious strains would have been. “Not a fighter!” said the other; “why, what do you mean?” “Why, just what I say--you are not a fighter. You love reading, and fiddling, and fishing sometimes, and sometimes dancing, and hunting, and swimming; but I'm pretty certain you don't love fighting. You needn't contradict, Bill--I've been thinking the matter over; and I'm sure of it. I recollect every battle or scrape you ever were in, from the time we went to old Chandler's, and I tell you, you're not a fighter--you don't love fighting!” This was concluded with a tremendous scrape over the strings, which seemed to say as well as scrape could speak--“There can be no mistake on the subject--I've said it.” “If I knew exactly what you were driving at,” said the other, “perhaps I might answer you. I never pretended to be a fighter; and as for loving it, as I love eating, drinking, books, fiddling, and dancing, why that needs no answer. Of course I do not, and I don't know who does.” “There it is. I told you. I knew it. You'd sooner do almost anything than fight.”