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What was old Bill doing there anyhow, darn him! Those chaps made him swim in their blood before they let him put the thing over. Good business! I'm glad they gave him all that was coming to him hot and strong." His sharp face had reddened and his voice rose high and nasal. There was a look of roused blood in him. "Are you a fighter from Fightersville?" the duke asked, far from unstirred himself.
They were fighters from Fightersville, anyhow. They fought each other, took each other's castles and lands and wives and jewelry just any old thing they wanted. The only jails were private ones meant for their particular friends.
Finding no bull-gnu, the slow little black and grayish-white fighter from Fightersville returned at a walk, still whistling with rage, to the unearthed bees'-nest, which looked like a town after a bad air-raid.
He had fought gallantly and gone down fighting. Tom and Dick, who had now rejoined him, shared his feeling. "Nothing 'yellow' about that old rascal but his hide," commented Dick. "A fighter from Fightersville," added Tom. When their jubilation had somewhat subsided, they measured their quarry. "Ten feet four inches, from the tip of the nose to the root of the tail," announced Tom.
I would rather have died among the pebbles than surrender my right to play and land a salmon, weight unknown, with an eight-ounce rod. I heard California, at my ear, it seemed, gasping: "He's a fighter from Fightersville, sure!" as his fish made a fresh break across the stream.
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