He didn't come out with anything worse than bumps, I guess--but what I saw of them are sure peaches; or maybe Italian prunes would hit them off closer; they're a fine purple shade.

I ladled Three H all over him." "I thought Dick was a fighter from Fighterville," grinned Ford, trying hard to remain non-committal and making a poor job of it.
"Well, he is, when he can stand up and box according to rule, or hit a man when he isn't looking.

But my, oh! This wasn't a fight, Ford; this was like the pictures you see of an old woman lambasting her son-in-law with an umbrella.

Dick never got a chance to begin.

Whee-ee! Mose sure can handle a rolling-pin some!" Ford laughed and went up to the house to his supper, and to the constrained atmosphere which was telling on his nerves more severely than did the gallon jug in his closet, and the moral effort it cost to keep that jug full to the neck.
He went in quietly, threw his hat on the bed, and sat down with an air of discouragement.