"You be no--fool!" panted the Waggoner, mopping his face with the end of
his neckerchief. "Leastways--not wi' your fists."

"Why, you are pretty good yourself, if it comes to that," returned
Bellew, mopping in his turn. Thus they stood a while stanching their
wounds, and gazing upon each other with a mutual, and growing respect.

"Well?" enquired Bellew, when he had recovered his breath somewhat,
"shall we begin again, or do you think we have had enough? To be sure, I
begin to feel much better for your efforts, you see, exercise is what I
most need, just now, on account of the--er--Haunting Spectre of the
Might Have Been,--to offset its effect, you know; but it is
uncomfortably warm work here, in the sun, isn't it?"

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner, "it be."

"Then suppose we--er--continue our journey?" said Bellew with his dreamy
gaze upon the tempting load of sweet-smelling hay.

"Ah!" nodded the Waggoner again, beginning to roll down his sleeves,
"suppose we do; I aren't above giving a lift to a chap as can use 'is
fists,--not even if 'e is a vagrant, and a uncommon dusty one at
that;--so, if you're in the same mind about it, up you get,--but no more
furrin curses, mind!" With which admonition, the Waggoner nodded,
grinned, and climbed back to his seat, while Bellew swung himself up
into the hay once more.

"Friend," said he, as the waggon creaked upon its way, "Do you smoke?"