If
he came across Tom, the fray would inevitably be resumed at once, and
his right eye, at the moment, showed a decided disinclination to open to
its usual extent, or to perform any of the functions properly demanded
of a right eye contemplating battle.
He must get up at once and bathe it and bring it to reason.
Raw beef, he believed, was the correct treatment under the
circumstances. But raw beef was almost as obtainable as raw moon, and
even raw mutton he did not know where he could procure, nor whether it
would answer the purpose.
So he bathed his bruises with much water, and reduced their excesses to
some extent, but not enough to escape the eye of his hostess when he
appeared at breakfast.
"Bin fighting?" she queried dispassionately.
"A one-sided fight. Tom Hamon was drunk last night and hit me in the
face, but he was not in a condition to fight or I'd have taught him
better manners."
"He's a rough piece," with a disparaging shake of the head. "It'd take a
lot to knock him into shape. Try this," and she delved among her stores,
and found him an ointment of her own compounding which took some of the
soreness out of his bruises.
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