Yes, man is strangely and wonderfully made. Now that I coolly
consider the matter, I realize that it was essentially the same
spirit with which I enjoyed beating up Tom Spink, that I have in the
past enjoyed contests of the mind in which I have out-epigrammed
clever opponents. In the one case, one proves himself top-dog of the
mind; in the other, top-dog of the muscle. Whistler and Wilde were
just as much intellectual bullies as I was a physical bully yesterday
morning when I punched Tom Spink into lying down and staying down.
And my knuckles are sore and swollen. I cease writing for a moment
to look at them and to hope that they will not stay permanently
enlarged.
At any rate, Tom Spink took his disciplining and promised to come in
and be good.
"Sir!" I thundered at him, quite in Mr. Pike's most bloodthirsty
manner.
"Sir," he mumbled with bleeding lips. "Yes, sir, I'll mop it up,
sir. Yes, sir."
I could scarcely keep from laughing in his face, the whole thing was
so ludicrous; but I managed to look my haughtiest, and sternest, and
fiercest, while I superintended the deck-cleansing.
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