"There, boy, there! Acknowledge thyself vanquished." Then the old fellow threw himself down on the bench, with his back to the table. "Come, lad, pull off my boots." "I will not," said Anthony, savagely, "you had unfair odds. You stood with your back to the window." "I was guarding my hat. Leave it where it lies, dribble, dribble--drip, and take my place on the floor, and try another bout, if thou wilt. Come on, I am ready for thee." Mr. Solomon Gibbs stood up, resumed his single-stick, and stepped into the midst of the hall. Anthony, with face on fire with annoyance and anger, stooped for his own weapon, and then took the place with the table behind him, where previously Mr. Gibbs had stood. "Ready!" called Sol. "Come along! so be I." Another bout, staves whirling in the air, feet dancing forward, backward, to this side, then to that. Reports as of pistols, when the sticks met. Anthony was no match for the old gentleman even now that he had the advantage of the light. Sol was without his wig, he had not resumed it, and his shaven pate exhibited many a scar, the mark of former encounters in which he had got the worst, but in which also he had acquired his skill. "My foot slipped!" said Anthony, as, having dealt an ineffectual blow from which Uncle Sol drew back, Anthony went forward to his knee, exposing himself completely to the mercy of his antagonist. "It is that cursed wet you have brought in--not fair." "Choose a dry spot," said Sol. "You have puddled the whole floor," answered the young man. "Then it is equal for both of us. I have given thee many advantages, boy." "I want none. I will have none." His eye was on the old man's bald head; the sting of the blows he had received had exasperated him past consideration of what was due to an aged man, the uncle of his wife. The blows had numbed in him every sense save anger. He longed to be able to cut open that smooth round skull, and so revenge his humiliations and relieve his ill-humour. But he could not reach that glossy pate, not smite which way he would, so dexterous was the ward of Uncle Sol, so ready was his eye, and quick his arm in responding to his eye. Not an advantage of any kind could he get over his adversary; he rained his blows fast, in the fury of his disappointment, hoping to beat down his guard by mere weight of blows; and Uncle Sol saw that he was blinded with wrath and had lost all sense of play, having passed into angry earnest. Then he twirled the stick from Anthony's hand once more, so that it flew to the ceiling, struck that, and fell by the hearth. Mr. Gibbs laughed. "Mine again, Tony, boy!" He cast himself into the settle by the fire, stretched forth his legs, and said, "Come, pull off my boots." Anthony stood lowering at him, panting and hot.