He did not take umbrage at this, but replied with argument: "Why, of
course you're a foreigner. You wear an apron, and you are not able to even
speak English properly."

This reflection upon my speech pained even more than it nettled me. Mr.
Stewart had been at great pains to teach me English, and I had begun to
hope that he felt rewarded by my proficiency. Years afterward he was wont
to laughingly tell me that I never would live long enough to use English
correctly, and that as a boy I spoke it abominably, which I dare say was
true enough. But just then my childish pride was grievously piqued by
Philip's criticism.

"Very well, I'll be on the outside, then," I said. "I won't be a
Frenchman, but I'll come all the same, and do you look out for yourself
when I _do_ come," or words to that purport.

We had a good, long contest over the snow wall. I seem to remember it all
better than I remember any other struggle of my life, although there were
some to come in which existence itself was at stake, but boys' mimic
fights are not subjects upon which a writer may profitably dwell. It is
enough to say that he defended himself very stoutly, hurling the balls
which Bob had made for him with great swiftness and accuracy, so that my
head was sore for a week. But my blood was up, and at last over the wall I
forced my way, pushing a good deal of it down as I went, and, grappling
him by the waist, wrestled with and finally threw him. We were both down,
with our faces in the snow, and I held him tight. I expected that he would
be angry, and hot to turn the play into a real fight; but he said instead,
mumbling with his mouth full of snow:

"Now you must pretend to scalp me, you know."