Jack Oliver was one who did not let his biceps rust in inaction, but thrashed everybody on the Island whom he thought needed it, and his ideas as to those who should be included in this class widened daily, until it began to appear that he would soon feel it his duty to let no unwhipped man escape, but pound everybody on the Island.
One day his evil genius led him to abuse a rather elderly man belonging to Hill's mess.

As he fired off his tirade of contumely, Hill said with more than his usual "soft" rusticity: "Mister--I--don't--think--it--just--right--for--a--young--man--to--call -- an--old--one--such--bad names." Jack Oliver turned on him savagely.
"Well! may be you want to take it up ?" The grin on Hill's face looked still more verdant, as he answered with gentle deliberation: "Well--mister--I--don't--go--around--a--hunting--things--but--I -- ginerally--take--care--of--all--that's--sent--me!" Jack foamed, but his fiercest bluster could not drive that infantile smile from Hill's face, nor provoke a change in the calm slowness of his speech.
It was evident that nothing would do but a battle-royal, and Jack had sense enough to see that the imperturbable rustic was likely to give him a job of some difficulty.

He went off and came back with his clan, while Hill's comrades of the One Hundredth gathered around to insure him fair play.

Jack pulled off his coat and vest, rolled up his sleeves, and made other elaborate preparations for the affray.

Hill, without removing a garment, said, as he surveyed him with a mocking smile: "Mister--you--seem--to--be--one--of--them--partick-e-ler--fellers." Jack roared out, "By -- -, I'll make you partickeler before I get through with you.