events of juvenile history were dated,--especially pugilistic events, of
which, when a good one came off, it used to be said that "such a battle
had not taken place since the year of the _Great Fight_" Bob Croaker was
a noted fighter. Martin Rattler was, up to this date, an untried hero.
Although fond of rough play and boisterous mischief, he had an
unconquerable aversion to _earnest_ fighting, and very rarely indeed
returned home with a black eye,--much to the satisfaction of Aunt Dorothy
Grumbit, who objected to all fighting from principle, and frequently
asserted, in gentle tones, that there should be no soldiers or sailors
(fighting sailors, she meant) at all, but that people ought all to settle
everything the best way they could without fighting, and live peaceably
with one another, as the Bible told them to do. They would be far happier
and better off, she was sure of that; and if everybody was of her way of
thinking, there would be neither swords, nor guns, nor pistols, nor
squibs, nor anything else at all! Dear old lady. It would indeed be a
blessing if her principles could be carried out in this warring and
jarring world. But as this is rather difficult, what we ought to be
careful about is, that we never fight except in a good cause and with a
clear conscience.

It was well for Martin Rattler, on that great day, that the formation of
the ground favoured him. The spot on which the fight took place was
uneven, and covered with little hillocks and hollows, over which Bob
Croaker stumbled, and into which he fell,--being a clumsy boy on his
legs,--and did himself considerable damage; while Martin, who was firmly
knit and active as a kitten, scarcely ever fell, or, if he did, sprang up
again like an India-rubber ball. Fair-play was embedded deep in the
centre of Martin's heart, so that he scorned to hit his adversary when he
was down or in the act of rising; but the thought of the fate that
awaited the white kitten if he were conquered, acted like lightning in