Then he sat down upon the curbstone, and, with his dizzy eyes shut, leaned forward for the better accommodation of his ensanguined nose.
Wesley had retreated to the other side of the street holding a grimy handkerchief to the midmost parts of his pallid face.

"There, you ole damn pup!" he shouted, in a voice which threatened to sob.

"I guess _that'll_ teach you to be careful how you mention Dora Yocum's name on the public streets!" At this, Ramsey made a motion as if to rise and pursue, whereupon Wesley fled, wailing back over his shoulder as he ran, "You wait till I ketch you out alone on the public streets and I'll--" His voice was lost in an outburst of hooting from his former friends, who sympathetically surrounded the wounded Ramsey.

But in a measure, at least, the chivalrous fugitive had won his point.

He was routed and outdone, yet what survived the day was a rumour, which became a sort of tenuous legend among those interested.