“It be enough,” said he, “to raise the ‘Old Adam’ inside o’ me to ’ave a tramper o’ the roads a-snoring in my hay,—­but I ain’t a-going to be called names, into the bargain.  ’Rusty’—­I may be, but I reckon I’m good enough for the likes o’ you,—­so come on down!” and the Waggoner shook his fists again.

He was a very square man, was this Waggoner, square of head, square of jaw, and square of body, with twinkling blue eyes, and a pleasant, good-natured face; but, just now, the eyes gleamed, and the face was set grimly, and, altogether, he looked a very ugly opponent.

Therefore Bellew sighed again, stretched himself, and, very reluctantly, climbed down out of the hay.  No sooner was he fairly in the road, than the Waggoner went for him with a rush, and a whirl of knotted fists.  It was very dusty in that particular spot so that it presently rose in a cloud, in the midst of which, the battle raged, fast and furious.

And, in a while, the Waggoner, rising out of the ditch, grinned to see Bellew wiping blood from his face.

“You be no—­fool!” panted the Waggoner, mopping his face with the end of his neckerchief.  “Leastways—­not wi’ your fists.”

“Why, you are pretty good yourself, if it comes to that,” returned Bellew, mopping in his turn.  Thus they stood a while stanching their wounds, and gazing upon each other with a mutual, and growing respect.

“Well?” enquired Bellew, when he had recovered his breath somewhat, “shall we begin again, or do you think we have had enough?  To be sure, I begin to feel much better for your efforts, you see, exercise is what I most need, just now, on account of the—­er—­Haunting Spectre of the Might Have Been,—­to offset its effect, you know; but it is uncomfortably warm work here, in the sun, isn’t it?”

“Ah!” nodded the Waggoner, “it be.”

“Then suppose we—­er—­continue our journey?” said Bellew with his dreamy gaze upon the tempting load of sweet-smelling hay.

“Ah!” nodded the Waggoner again, beginning to roll down his sleeves, “suppose we do; I aren’t above giving a lift to a chap as can use ’is fists,—­not even if ’e is a vagrant, and a uncommon dusty one at that;—­so, if you’re in the same mind about it, up you get,—­but no more furrin curses, mind!” With which admonition, the Waggoner nodded, grinned, and climbed back to his seat, while Bellew swung himself up into the hay once more.

“Friend,” said he, as the waggon creaked upon its way, “Do you smoke?”

“Ah!” nodded the Waggoner.

“Then here are three cigars which you didn’t manage to smash just now.”

“Cigars! why it ain’t often as I gets so far as a cigar, unless it be Squire, or Parson,—­cigars, eh!” Saying which, the Waggoner turned and accepted the cigars which he proceeded to stow away in the cavernous interior of his wide-eaved hat, handling them with elaborate care, rather as if they were explosives of a highly dangerous kind.