, 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
is, he rushed at the foe head foremost, and struck like a windmill. He
was a lumpy boy. When he did hit, he made himself felt; but he was at
the mercy of science. To see him come dashing in, blinking and puffing
and whirling his arms abroad while the felling blow went straight
between them, you perceived that he was fighting a fight of desperation,
and knew it. For the dreaded alternative glared him in the face that, if
he yielded, he must look like what he had been twenty times calumniously
called; and he would die rather than yield, and swing his windmill till
he dropped. Poor boy! he dropped frequently. The gallant fellow fought
for appearances, and down he went. The Gods favour one of two parties.
Prince Turnus was a noble youth; but he had not Pallas at his elbow.
Ripton was a capital boy; he had no science. He coul