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.