“Yes, from the nostrils. It's a sort of natural channel, and runs freely from that quarter. The one crows and the other runs and there's an end of the scrape and the sulks. The weaker chap, feeling his weakness, ceases to be impudent; the stronger, having his power acknowledged, becomes the protector of the weak. Each party falls into his place, and so far from the licking producing bad feeling it produces good feeling and good humor; and I conclude that one half of the trouble in the world, the squabbles between man and man, woman and woman, boy and boy--nay, between rival nations--is simply because your false and foolish notions of brutality and philanthropy keep them from coming to the scratch as soon as they should. They hang off, growling and grumbling, and blackguarding, and blaspheming, when, if they would only take hold, and come to an earnest grapple, the odds would soon show themselves--broken heads and noses would follow--the bad blood would run, and as soon as each party found his level, the one being finally on his back, peace would ensue, and there would be good humor for ever after, or at least until the blood thickened again. I think there's reason in my notion. I was thinking it over half the night. I've thought of it oftentimes before. I've never yet seen the argument that's strong enough to tumble it.” “Your views are certainly novel, Ned, if not sound. You will excuse me if I do not undertake to dispute them this morning. I give in, therefore, and you may congratulate yourself upon having gained a triumph if not a convert?” “Stop, stop, William Hinkley: you don't suppose I've done all this talking only to make a convert or to gain a triumph?” “Why, that's your object in fighting, why not in arguing?” “Well, that's the object of most persons when they dispute, I know; but it is not mine. I wish to make a practical application of my doctrine.” “Indeed! who do you mean to fight now?” “It's not for me to fight, it's for you.” “Me!” “Yes; you have the preference by rights, though if you don't--and I'm rather sorry to think, as I told you at the start, that the only fault I had to find with you is that you're not a fighter--I must take your place and settle the difference.” William Hinkley turned upon the speaker. The latter had laid down the violin, having, in the course of the argument, broken all its strings; and he stood now, unjacketed, and still in the chamber, where the two young men had been sleeping, almost in the attitude of one about to grapple with an antagonist. The serious face of him whose voice had been for war--his startling position--the unwonted eagerness of his eye, and the ludicrous importance which he attached to the strange principle which he had been asserting--conquered for a moment the graver mood of his love-sick companion, and he laughed outright at his pugnacious cousin. The latter seemed a little offended.