A dog-fight
is a most heating entertainment, quite apart from the shouting, because
Rampurs fight over a couple of acres of ground. Later, when the sound
of belt-badges clicking against the necks of beer-bottles had died
away, conversation drifted from dog to man-fights of all kinds. Humans
resemble red-deer in some respects. Any talk of fighting seems to wake
up a sort of imp in their breasts, and they bell one to the other,
exactly like challenging bucks. This is noticeable even in men who
consider themselves superior to Privates of the Line: it shows the
Refining Influence of Civilisation and the March of Progress.
Tale provoked tale, and each tale more beer. Even dreamy Learoyd's
eyes began to brighten, and he unburdened himself of a long history
in which a trip to Malham Cove, a girl at Pateley Brigg, a ganger,
himself and a pair of clogs were mixed in drawling tangle.
'An' so Ah coot's yead oppen from t' chin to t' hair, an' he was abed
for t' matter o' a month,' concluded Learoyd pensively.
Mulvaney came out of a reverie--he was lying down--and flourished his
heels in the air. 'You're a man, Learoyd,' said he critically, 'but
you've only fought wid men, an' that's an ivry-day expayrience; but
I've stud up to a ghost, an' that was _not_ an ivry-day expayrience.
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