What was worse, Matey examined these two, in the interests of fair play, as if he doubted.
Little Emile Grenat set matters right with his boast to vindicate his country against double the number, and Matey praised him, though he knew Emile had been floored without effort by the extension of a single fist.
He would not hear the French abused; he said they were chivalrous, they were fine fellows, topping the world in some things; his father had fought them and learnt to respect them.

Perhaps his father had learnt to respect Jews, for there was a boy named Abner, he protected, who smelt Jewish; he said they ran us Gentiles hard, and carried big guns.
Only a reputation like Matey's could have kept his leadership from a challenge.

Joseph Masner, formerly a rival, went about hinting and shrugging; all to no purpose, you find boys born to be chiefs.

On the day of the snow-fight Matey won the toss, and chose J.Masner first pick; and Masner, aged seventeen and some months, big as a navvy, lumbered across to him and took his directions, proud to stand in the front centre, at the head of the attack, and bear the brunt--just what he was fit for, Matey gave no offence by choosing, half-way down the list, his little French friend, whom he stationed beside himself, rather off his battle-front, as at point at cricket, not quite so far removed.
Two boys at his heels piled ammunition.

The sides met midway of a marshy ground, where a couple of flat and shelving banks, formed for a broad new road, good for ten abreast--counting a step of the slopes--ran transverse; and the order of the game was to clear the bank and drive the enemy on to the frozen ditch-water.