since the year of the Great Fight” Bob Croaker was a noted fighter.  Martin Rattler was, up to this date, an untried hero.  Although fond of rough play and boisterous mischief, he had an unconquerable aversion to earnest fighting, and very rarely indeed returned home with a black eye,—­much to the satisfaction of Aunt Dorothy Grumbit, who objected to all fighting from principle, and frequently asserted, in gentle tones, that there should be no soldiers or sailors (fighting sailors, she meant) at all, but that people ought all to settle everything the best way they could without fighting, and live peaceably with one another, as the Bible told them to do.  They would be far happier and better off, she was sure of that; and if everybody was of her way of thinking, there would be neither swords, nor guns, nor pistols, nor squibs, nor anything else at all!  Dear old lady.  It would indeed be a blessing if her principles could be carried out in this warring and jarring world.  But as this is rather difficult, what we ought to be careful about is, that we never fight except in a good cause and with a clear conscience.

It was well for Martin Rattler, on that great day, that the formation of the ground favoured him.  The spot on which the fight took place was uneven, and covered with little hillocks and hollows, over which Bob Croaker stumbled, and into which he fell,—­being a clumsy boy on his legs,—­and did himself considerable damage; while Martin, who was firmly knit and active as a kitten, scarcely ever fell, or, if he did, sprang up again like an India-rubber ball.  Fair-play was embedded deep in the centre of Martin’s heart, so that he scorned to hit his adversary when he was down or in the act of rising; but the thought of the fate that awaited the white kitten if he were conquered, acted like lightning in his veins, and scarcely had Bob time to double his fists after a fall, when he was knocked back again into the hollow out of which he had risen.  There were no rounds in this fight,—­no pausing to recover breath.  Martin’s anger rose with every blow, whether given or received; and although he was knocked down flat four or five times, he rose again, and, without a second’s delay, rushed headlong at his enemy.  Feeling that he was too little and light to make much impression on Bob Croaker by means of mere blows, he endeavoured as much as possible to throw his weight against him at each assault; but Bob stood his ground well, and after a time seemed even to be recovering strength a little.

Suddenly he made a rush at Martin, and, dealing him a successful blow on the forehead, knocked him down; at the same time he himself tripped over a molehill and fell upon his face.  Both were on their legs in an instant.  Martin grew desperate.  The white kitten swimming for its life seemed to rise before him, and new energy was infused into his frame.  He retreated a step or two, and then darted forward like an arrow from a bow.  Uttering a loud cry,