bout him; but they gave me fair play, brother; and I beat
Staffordshire Dick, which I couldn't have done had they put one finger on
his side the scale; for he was as good a man as myself, or nearly so.
Now, brother, had I but bent a finger in favour of the Rommany chal, the
plastramengro would never have come alive out of the lane; but I did not,
for I thought to myself fair play is a precious stone; so you see,
brother--'

'That you are quite right, Mr. Petulengro, I see that clearly; and now,
pray proceed with your narration; it is both moral and entertaining.'

But Mr. Petulengro did not proceed with his narration, neither did he
proceed upon his way; he had stopped his horse, and his eyes were
intently fixed on a broad strip of grass beneath some lofty trees, on the
left side of the road. It was a pleasant enough spot, and seemed to
invite wayfaring people, such as we were, to rest from the fatigues of
the road, and the heat and vehemence of the sun. After examining it for
a considerable time, Mr. Petulengro said, 'I say, brother, that would be
a nice place for a tussle!'

'I daresay it would,' said I, 'if two people were inclined to fight.'

'The ground is smooth,' said Mr. Petulengro; 'without holes or ruts, and
the trees cast much shade. I don't think, brother, that we could find a
better place,' said Mr. Petulengro, springing from his horse.

'But you and I don't want to fight!'

'Speak for yourself, brother,' said Mr. Petulengro. 'However, I will
tell you how the matter stands. There is a point at present between us.
There can be no doubt that you are the cause of Mrs. Herne's death,
innocently, you will say, but still the cause. Now, I shouldn't like it
to be known that I went up and down the country with a pal who was the
cause of my mother-in-law's death, that's to say, unless he gave me
satisfaction. Now, if I and my pal have a tussle, he gives me
satisfaction; and, if he knocks my eyes out, which I know you can't do,
it makes no difference at all, he gives me satisfaction; and he who says
to the contrary knows nothing of gypsy law, and is a dinelo into the
bargain.'

'But we have no gloves!'

'Gloves!' said Mr. Petulengro, contemptuously, 'gloves! I tell you what,
brother, I always thought you were a better hand at the gloves than the
naked fist; and, to tell you the truth, besides taking satisfaction for
Mrs. Herne's death, I wish to see what you can do with your mawleys; so
now is your t