The new-comer strode up to him. He was evidently master here, and the others were trespassing, and they knew it, for they slunk back. Yet, in reply to his reiterated commands, the lout who was boldest snatched me up and refused to part with me. He was so big and strong that he seemed a giant, and I felt I should die there and then. I closed my eyes and gave myself up, but in a minute I was down on the bank once more, and the two—the new-comer and the great rough fellow—were fighting hard, with coats off and red faces. The sound of the blows that followed, the tramping of feet, the hard breathing of the combatants, nearly deprived me of the few senses that remained to me, and I noticed little of the details of the fight—only it seemed to last a long time, and once I saw the schoolboy flat on his back. But he was up almost as soon as down, and they were at it again hammer and tongs. The giant made a rush head down, like a bull, but the other jumped back, and there followed a rattle of blows as my champion’s fists got home on the lout’s hard head. But the squire’s son did not wholly escape. The huge fist that had grasped me so roughly caught him on the right cheek and drove him back. One of my champion’s eyes was closing, his right cheek was turning livid, and there was blood on his broad white collar when they faced one another again. But the ruffian for his part, though not so badly marked, was breathing like a fat pug dog and seemed unsteady on his legs. To do the fellow justice, he had pluck, for he wasted no time in making a last attempt to rush his opponent. For a few moments it was all that the other could do to guard his head against the swinging fists. Then—it was all so quick that one could hardly see what happened—there was a crack like the sound two rams make when they charge one another, and the giant tottered for a moment, his arms waving wildly, then fell like a log and lay quite still. The other new-comer counted loud and slowly ‘One—two—three—four’—up to ten. But the fellow on the ground did not move. ‘That’s the finish,’ he said. He turned to where I lay, with hardly a breath in me, a little limp body, and picking me up, handled me tenderly. Terrified as I was, the change was grateful to my miserable, aching little body. He offered me to the victor in the fight, who had by this time got into his coat again, but he declined. ‘Put him in your pocket, Harry,’ he said to his brother. ‘My hands are too hot to hold him.’ He was quite right. Let me here give a word of advice to all those humans who keep any of my race as pets. Don’t hold us in your hands. In the first place, it frightens us desperately, and in the second, it is bad for us. A squirrel rarely lives long in captivity if he is constantly handled. I speak from experience, and I can assure you that, much as I grew to love my dear master and my other human friends, I was never happy in their hands, though I never minded being kept in their pockets.