y trying often," said Flea.

Stephen sat on the ground, picking mud out of his forehead. "I meant it
to be fists," he said gloomily.

"I know, sir."

"It's jolly smart though, and--and I beg your pardon all round." It
cost him a great deal to say this, but he was sure that it was the right
thing to say. He must acknowledge the better man. Whereas most people,
if they provoke a fight and are flung, say, "You cannot rob me of my
moral victory."

There was nothing further to be done. He mounted again, not exactly
depressed, but feeling that this delightful world is extraordinarily
unreliable. He had never expected to fling the soldier, or to be
flung by Flea. "One nips or is nipped," he thought, "and never knows
beforehand. I should not be surprised if many people had more in them
than I suppose, while others were just the other way round. I haven't
seen that sort of thing in Ingersoll, but it's quite important." Then
his thoughts turned to a curious incident of long ago, when he had been
"nipped"--as a little boy. He was trespassing in those woods, when
he met in a narrow glade a flock of sheep. They had neither dog nor
shepherd, and advanced towards him silently. He was accustomed to sheep,
but had never happened to meet them in a wood before, and disliked it.
He retired, slowly at first, then fast; and the flock, in a dense mass,
pressed after him. His terror increased. He turned and screamed at their
long white faces; and still they came on, all stuck together, like some
horrible jell--. If once he got into them! Bellowing and screeching, he
rushed into the undergrowth, tore himself all over, and reached home in
convulsions. Mr. Failing, his only grown-up friend, was sympathetic, but
quite stupid. "Pan ovium custos," he sympathetic, as he pulled out the
thorns. "Why not?" "Pan ovium custos." Stephen learnt the meaning of the
phrase at school, "A pan of eggs for custard." He still remembered how
the other boys looked as he peeped at them between his legs, awaiting
the descending cane.

So he returned, full of pleasant disconnected thoughts. He had had a
rare good time. He liked every one--even that poor little Elliot--and
yet no one mattered. They were all out. On the landing he saw the
housemaid. He felt skittish and irresistible. Should he slip his arm
round her waist? Perhaps better not; she might box his ears. And he
wanted to smoke on the roof before dinner. So he only said, "Please will
you stop the boy blac