But then, I never was very fond of
learning anything. I was a very stupid boy, at school."
"Oh, I am sure you could not have been that, Dick," she said
confidently.
"I was indeed, Annie. I think the only thing I could do well was
fighting. I was a beggar to fight--not because I used to quarrel with
fellows, but because it made me hard and tough, and my mother thought
that it would make me more fit to carry out this search for my
father."
"What did you fight with--swords?" Annie asked.
Dick laughed.
"No, no, Annie, when we quarrel in England we fight with our fists."
"What is a fist? I never heard of that weapon."
"That is a fist, Annie. You see, it is hard enough to knock a fellow
down, though it does not very often do that; but it hurts him a bit,
without doing him any harm, except that it may black his eyes or puff
up his face for a day or two--and no boy minds that. It accustoms one
to bear pain, and is a splendid thing for teaching a boy to keep his
temper, and I believe it is one reason why the English make such good
soldiers. It is a sort of science, you see, and one learns it just as
people here learn to be good swordsmen. I had lessons, when I was
twelve years old, from a little man who used to be a champion
lightweight--that is, a man of not more than a certain weight.
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