"Hands off, Parfitt! Mellor's here as a messenger from the Fifth of St.
Bede's to us, the Fifth of Garside. Don't drag us in the mud! Let's be
fair! They've sent us a challenge. Let's be polite enough to answer
it."

"Interfering again," sneered Parfitt. "Always poking your nose where it
isn't wanted!"

"Don't get waxy, Parfitt," remonstrated Hasluck. "Percival's quite
right. It isn't nice perhaps to know that one of our fellows has gone
over to the Beetles, but there it is. It can't be helped. What's done
can't very well be undone. Let's be fair, and let's be polite. There,
I'm with Percival, and so, I think, are the rest of you." ("Hear, hear,
hear," from the rest, with the exception of Parfitt, who felt rather
small.) "Shall we send an answer?"

"Yes, yes."

"I knew well enough you'd say 'Yes.' Well, the next point is, what's the
answer to be?"

"I think there can be only one answer," exclaimed Newall, speaking for
the first time. "The Fifth Form Gargoyle is quite ready to meet the
Fifth Form Beetle at the sand-pit, Cranstead Common, to-morrow
afternoon, three sharp."

At once a cheer broke out in favour of Newall's suggestion.

"As Parfitt wrote the elegant little note which has brought this storm
upon us, he'd better write the answer," said Hasluck.

This suggestion also met with general approval. Parfitt hesitated, but
at length wrote the note as dictated by Newall. Hasluck read it out.

"Will it do?" he questioned when he had finished.

"Agreed, agreed!" was the answering shout. Paul alone remained silent.
His face was unusually grave. He had come there on a peaceful mission,
and the peaceful mission had ended in a declaration of war.

"There you are, Mellor; take that and give it to your brother Beetles,
with the compliments and best wishes of the Fifth," he said, as he
folded up the note and handed it to Mellor. "Now cut!"

"Cut isn't the word," said Arbery, as he opened the door. "Crawl!"

Mellor darted out of the shed with the note, without waiting for any
further references to the new title conferred upon him.

"Won't you eat your words in the sand-pit to-morrow!" he cried as a
parting shot.

"The cheeky beggar got the last word in anyhow," quoth Arbery as he
closed the door.

Dead silence followed for a minute or two, then it was broken by
Hasluck.

"You called us here, Percival," he said, turning to Paul, "to talk over
the triangular squabble between you and Moncrief and Newall. Y