hard, who was
still smarting at the loss of the birds, owing to Ripton's bad shot, and
was really the injured party. He, therefore bestowed the abusive epithet
on Ripton anew, and with increase of emphasis.

"You shan't call me so, then, whether I am or not," says Ripton, and
sucks his lips.

This was becoming personal. Richard sent up his brows, and stared at his
defier an instant. He then informed him that he certainly should call him
so, and would not object to call him so twenty times.

"Do it, and see!" returns Ripton, rocking on his feet, and breathing
quick.

With a gravity of which only boys and other barbarians are capable,
Richard went through the entire number, stressing the epithet to increase
the defiance and avoid monotony, as he progressed, while Ripton bobbed
his head every time in assent, as it were, to his comrade's accuracy, and
as a record for his profound humiliation. The dog they had with them
gazed at the extraordinary performance with interrogating wags of the
tail.

Twenty times, duly and deliberately, Richard repeated the obnoxious word.

At the twentieth solemn iteration of Ripton's capital shortcoming, Ripton
delivered a smart back-hander on Richard's mouth, and squared
precipitately; perhaps sorry when the deed was done, for he was a
kind-hearted lad, and as Richard simply bowed in acknowledgment of the
blow he thought he had gone too far. He did not know the young gentleman
he was dealing with. Richard was extremely cool.

"Shall we fight here?" he said.

"Anywhere you like," replied Ripton.

"A little more into the wood, I think. We may be interrupted." And
Richard led the way with a courteous reserve that somewhat chilled
Ripton's ardour for the contest. On the skirts of the wood, Richard threw
off his jacket and waistcoat, and, quite collected, waited for Ripton to
do the same. The latter boy was flushed and restless; older and broader,
but not so tight-limbed and well-set. The Gods, sole witnesses of their
battle, betted dead against him. Richard had mounted the white cockade of
the Feverels, and there was a look in him that asked for tough work to
extinguish. His brows, slightly lined upward at the temples, converging
to a knot about the well-set straight nose; his full grey eyes, open
nostrils, and planted feet, and a gentlemanly air of calm and alertness,
formed a spirited picture of a young combatant. As for Ripton, he was all
abroad, and fought in school-boy style--that