You squirmed, realizing the task before you.
“Well, we were playin’, an’ Ted he tripped me, an’ I said he did it on purpose (an’ he did, too), an’ he said he didn’t an’ I said he did, an’ he said I was a liar an’ da’sn’t back it, an’ I went to back it, an’ he hit me, an’—”
“But what _is_ to ‘back it’?” interrupted your mother.
“Why, to back it—to back it, you know. He said I da’sn’t _back it_, an’ I had to or else I’d be a coward, an’ he hit me, an’ I hit him, an’—”
“But how could you back being a liar? I don’t understand.”
She was a darling mother, yet at times surprisingly dense.
“I _did_ back it, though, just the same.” That ought to be exposition enough, and you galloped on with your narrative: “An’ I hit him, an’ he hit me right on the forehead,—but it didn’t hurt,—an’ I—an’ then we got each other down, an’ I was gettin’ on top, an’ then the kids pulled him off, an’ a man came by an’ wouldn’t let us fight any more. Ted’s ten, an’ I’m only nine.”
Thus, with a little valorous touch, you finished your story. This much you accomplished, even though you evidently had failed in bringing your mother to a clear perception of “backing it.”
“What’s that, John? Fighting! With whom?”
“John had a fight this afternoon; have you heard about it?” asked your mother, gravely, of your father at supper.
[Illustration: “‘SAY, SPECK SAYS HE CAN LICK YOU’”]
“Ted Watson. He tripped me on purpose an’ nearly made me fall when I was runnin’, an’ then he told me I da’sn’t back it. But we didn’t fight long, ’cause a man came by an’ stopped us.”
“You can see he scratched his nose, and his collar was torn almost off his shirt,” supplemented your mother.
“I tore _his_ collar, too—an’ I bet he’s goin’ to have a black eye,” you hastened to state, in palliation.
“W-w-well, I’m astonished, John!” asserted your father, very solemnly.
You fastened your eyes upon your plate, and could think of nothing to say in rebuttal. You had stalked homeward a hero, fondly expecting that your parents would be proud of you, who, only nine, had combatted a boy of ten, and were “gettin’ on top”; but witness how they had wet-blanketed you!
“I told him that he ought to have refused to fight, and it would have made the other little boy ashamed,” informed your mother.