flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.
"Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.
John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.
Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand, a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.
The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.
"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and faculties.
"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.
"You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in…. W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his nose and emitting a bellowing Boo-oo-oo! of incredibly bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of love.
Rupert struggled to his feet.
